


A Stitch in Time

by Wyrdly



Category: Sanditon (TV 2019), Sanditon - Jane Austen
Genre: F/M, Regency, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:16:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 49,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21597508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wyrdly/pseuds/Wyrdly
Summary: A sixteen-year-old Charlotte Heywood finds her way to Sanditon a few years early, and history is ever so slightly rewritten.AU.
Relationships: Charlotte Heywood/Sidney Parker
Comments: 328
Kudos: 524





	1. Old roads lead to new places

Charlotte is sixteen when she sees the sea for the first time. Her aunt is getting married, and her mother is eight months into her latest pregnancy, unable to travel because of her imminent confinement. Mr Heywood is reluctant to go without her, but his wife packs him off along with their eldest daughter, giving the latter strict instructions to keep her father sensible and sober. Mr Heywood laughs, kisses his wife and offers a gallant arm to his daughter as he hands her into the trap and gets up himself to take the pony's reins. The eldest of Charlotte’s younger brothers dangles his legs off the back, along for the first part of the journey.

As soon as they're out of sight of the house, Mr Heywood gives the reins to Charlotte, and she steers them all the way to the coaching inn at the nearby town, arms aching and hair flying. Her father smiles quietly at her, her brother laughs and plays jigs on a small tin whistle and even the April rain, when it comes, cannot dampen their spirits. Her father ruffles his son's hair when they arrive at the inn, and hands him half a pork pie for his lunch.

"Straight home." He tells him, and Jonathan nods and grins, waving to Charlotte with one hand as he flicks the reins with the other and clicks the pony on with his tongue.

The express is cramped and smells unpleasantly of other people and damp leather, and after three days of jarring roads and creaky beds Charlotte is sure she is ready to be done with this latest adventure.

And then they reach the coast.

Charlotte is squashed into a corner, neck craned to see beyond the tattered curtains that line the coach's grimy window. The sun has come out and all she can see is a wide expanse of sparkling blue. 

Charlotte feels like she is choking on it, a deep bubbling joy and a desperate need to get closer, to feel the wind coming off the waves and the clear coldness of the water.

The coach races along the cliff edge, and Charlotte Heywood licks her lips and tastes the salt of the sea and smiles.

Portsmouth is a horrible city. It smells of fish and humanity, and the sea looks grimy and cold. The wedding is small and sweet, Charlotte's mother's sister quietly marries her sea Captain and looks blissfully happy about it. She's twelve years older than Charlotte and hasn't seen her since Charlotte was a baby, but she insists that Charlotte be a last minute addition to the wedding party.

"Anne would be," she declares of Charlotte's mother, "if she weren't so happily married."

She winks and half of the company look mildly horrified, while the rest look rather amused. Charlotte understands enough to blush, and her father grins ruefully and shakes his head. Captain Derney's ship departs in a week, so the couple are to honeymoon a few miles up the coast in a quiet town just on the cusp of being developed.

"It's going to be a new resort." The new Mrs Derney announces gleefully, "and we shall be its first customers!"

"I think it's still rather in the planning stages." Captain Derney remonstrates, "But that is all the better for us, we shall be without the terrible racket of building noise, and the lodgings will be half the price!"

"Join us for a few days," Mrs Derney begs Charlotte and her father, "Charlotte and I have only just met, and it may be years before we see you both again."

Mr Heywood looks conflicted, thinking of his wife at home.

Charlotte, ever the sensible one, takes his hand and smiles gently. "We should get back." She tells him.

"It must be another time, my dear." Her father tells his sister in law. Mrs Derney pouts playfully, but she does not push, instead changing her tactics. 

"At least take the carriage with us," She insists, "Spend the day at Sanditon with us and get some fresh air, and go on with the coach in the evening, it's on your way home in any case. You shall be scarcely six hours later than if you never came at all!"

Mr Heywood grants this, and Charlotte feels a quiet, selfish thrill. Back along the coast to the proper sea, the true sea!

There is only one other gentleman in the stagecoach when the four of them climb in early the next morning. He is asleep, nose tucked into the collar of his black travelling coat. Charlotte can only see his profile, a deep wrinkle in his brow and a strong nose followed by full lips that nearly snarl, crushed as they are against his clothes. Charlotte thinks he looks young and angry, and rather sad.

"No matter," Her father whispers loudly, glancing around the cramped space, "I shall sit up next to the driver."

Captain and Mrs Derney sit side by side on the empty half of the coach, and Charlotte curls herself as neatly as she can into the available seat. The young man's legs are long, and as the coach jostles its passengers his knee nudges Charlotte's own until, with the aid of one large pothole, his leg presses nearly against the full length of hers.

Charlotte wants to shudder at the strange contact, such proximity to a stranger she has never experienced before. The warmth of him seeps through the layers of clothing and travels to Charlotte's cheeks, and she bites her lip and stares out the window, hoping for a glimpse of the sea to distract her. They are rollicking down a steep slope at a steady pace, the entire carriage bouncing with exuberant momentum, and all Charlotte can see that might hint of the ocean is tantalising silhouette of what could be a distant headland. 

Mrs Derney murmurs something to her husband and he laughs quietly in response. Charlotte glances at them, wondering if they laugh at her expense, but the couple are lost in one another, oblivious to Charlotte or the stranger at her side.

Charlotte smiles at the picture they make, feeling her lips pull up involuntarily. Their joy is infectious.

The young man's knee presses against her leg for an instant, as if the muscle had spasmed, and Charlotte turns her head slightly to the side, smile still on her lips.

It falls a little as she meets two dark, open eyes. A rich, deep brown, they feel as though they stare into her very soul. It's a moment no longer than a second, but it is what she will remember most about the moment for years to come. The warmth of him, and the cold terrible pain in his eyes.

Charlotte blinks, the coach flies over a pothole and the front wheel splinters with a hideous snap that echoes in her ears. The horses screech and rear and there is nothing to stop the carriage’s momentum as it lurches to the side and over, utterly unbalanced. Charlotte has no time even to put out a hand before her side of the coach crashes into the broken road, her head bouncing into the shattered window and a bruising pain blooming in her thigh. The carriage skids and groans its way down the steep slope and the chassis breaks with a deafening crack. 

Charlotte swears she can hear the sound of the fleeing horses over the blood pounding in her ears, but all she knows are the large warm arms wrapped around her, pinning her in place as a strong hand comes up to cradle her head, too late to prevent the blackness that swallows her whole.

When Charlotte wakes, Her whole world is spinning. Or rather, shaking from side to side. There's a pounding in her head and a sharp, all-encompassing pain in her thigh that makes her whimper.

A voice above her head hushes her, and as Charlotte drags her eyelids open, wincing with pain as the action pulls on the skin around her eyes. She feels a sticky dampness against her temple, trickling into her hairline, and sees just before her nose the black buttons of a frock coat. Her whole body seems to be wrapped in it, and blearily she realizes she is being carried. The cloth is smarter than her father's old greatcoat, and as her head drops back with the jostling movement she catches the strong chin and full lips of the young man from the coach.

"M'father." Charlotte attempts to say, but speaking is harder than she expected, and her words slur, no louder than a whisper.

"You are the only one severely hurt." The young man replies, "Stay still, I am taking you to a doctor."

She wants to know where her father is, whether Captain and Mrs Derney are all right. The questions are on the tip of her tongue, but they become lost in the burning pain that sweeps over her whole body. She whimpers and curls in on herself, and the arms around her tighten sympathetically. The movement jars her leg, brushing against the wound on her thigh that seems to be the centre of the agony. Charlotte chokes on a cry and feels an echoing flinch in the body that carries hers. 

"Hush, you must remain still." The young man says, sounding more desperate than calm. His arms cradle her more gently, but Charlotte is lost to a roaring pain and a strange delirium. Perhaps it is like being swallowed by the sea, she thinks. There is a musky, salty scent in the air and in the fabric next to her head. Through it all a steady, galloping rhythm pulses through her ears. The rocking motion increases and short pants of air hit Charlotte's face. 

They are flying now, she thinks, they will fly all the way beyond the sea. 

She lets his thundering pulse lull her into unconsciousness.

She wakes to find herself lying on a physicians bench, surrounded by a cacophony of voices and swiftly moving bodies that her eyes cannot follow. She cannot find her father’s voice or form amongst them, and her hands grasp the empty air, hoping to find him somehow by touch. A warm palm settles her hand against the table, pressing it gently flat against the wood. She looks up, but her eyes are blurred with tears and she cannot see. There is a tentative brush against her temple as a soft cloth wipes some of the dampness from her eyes, clearing her vision.

The young man is at her side, dark eyes fixed on her face. He turns her palm over with the hand that pressed it to the table and gently folds her fingers around the handkerchief he has just used to wipe her eyes. 

“I must leave you to better care than mine.” He pronounces in a rich voice, pitched low against the uproar of the room. Before Charlotte can gather her faculties to thank him, he is gone. 

A brisk hand cups her neck and raises her head to offer her a bitter liquid to drink, and Charlotte chokes it down. She tightens her grip on the handkerchief, scrunching the material so hard that her nails bite into her skin. 

It is the last thing she knows before her consciousness fades and the fever takes hold. 

A week later, she is lucid but weak. Charlotte truly had been the only one seriously injured in the crash. Her leg had been gashed open on the splintered frame of the carriage, the impact bruising her leg to the bone. The splinters have been carefully picked out, but the infection had set in and is only just abating. 

Her father sits at her bedside, and informs her of the fate of the coach’s other inhabitants. Captain Derney had been mildly concussed, and Mrs Derney had no more than bruises. Mr Heywood and the coachman had been thrown clear of the carriage as it lurched, and Mr Heywood had landed badly on his left side.

"My ankle and wrist are sprained," he informs Charlotte as she lies dazed in the bed, curtains drawn and a dull light filtering through. Her head is lightly bandaged and her leg even more heavily so. It throbs, and the constant pain is exhausting. Her father takes her hand and squeezes it, and she aches as much for the worried frown on his face as she does from her injuries. "I could barely walk, let alone carry you to the town. Mr Parker very possibly saved your life."

"I must thank him." Charlotte says drowsily, and smiles at her father to reassure him. A wave of nausea rolls over her, and her smile becomes a grimace.

When it recedes her father and the town's physician, an old man whose hands have a noticeable tremor even when at rest, are consulting one another in the corner of the room. Charlotte knows their frowns mean something serious, but she finds herself too tired to care.

A maid enters the room and smiles at Charlotte kindly. She sets something down on the bedside table, and as Charlotte turns her head she sees a neatly folded and pressed handkerchief.

“You had it in your hand, miss.” The maid tells her, “When the fever was high we couldn’t prise it from you. I’ve done my best to wash it but the stain set in, only I didn’t want to burn it, as you seemed to treasure it so.”

Charlotte nods, thanking the maid earnestly as her eyes trace the handkerchief with curiosity. The linen is a crisp white, but the edges are hemmed unevenly, giving it a lopsided effect despite the neat folds the maid has left. Two blue initials are entwined on one corner, an E and a P. The stitches are, like the hem, ungainly and clumsily crafted, but Charlotte smiles to see the deliberate care that must have been taken over them. It reminds her of when she was small, and her mother taught her to sew. Her work is little better now, as needlework is not Charlotte’s preferred pursuit, being rather too sedentary a pastime to pair well with her love of the outdoors, and she feels a kinship with the awkward crafter of the handkerchief’s small embellishments. 

Less endearing to Charlotte is the dark stain that bisects the initialed E. Scrubbed into a dark brown, her blood forms an almost perfect crescent, smeared in one corner like too much wax on a seal. Her eyes trace the shape over and over as exhaustion slowly claims her, lingering on its dark intrusion. She wonders how she is to return it to its rightful owner when it has been so indelibly marked by her touch, or how to convey her gratitude to the man who gave it. Mr Parker is the name her father gave, a Parker that she realises must pair with the handkerchief's second initial.

Edward, thinks Charlotte, or Edmund. Ewan or Eliot perhaps. The names spin around in her head and she cannot settle on one. They none of them seem to suit him well.

  
  


"I'm so sorry my dear, so sorry." Mrs Derney's hands flutter for Charlotte's, clasping them then patting them, then clasping them once more. Her eyes are misty with emotion and Charlotte feels awkward.

"It wasn't your fault." Charlotte tells her earnestly. "I can still walk, it is not so very bad."

Mrs Derney's eyes flutter to the cane that is propped against the bed. Sanditon’s physician, a Mr Brooks on the cusp of retirement (to a small village in Wales, he tells Charlotte, where his mother was from), broke the news just that morning. There was hope that she would be able to walk normally with enough rest and recuperation, but the more likely fate was a pain in her thigh that would follow her for the rest of her life. The bone itself had been bruised, and the gash has healed poorly in a knot of tissue that will pull and cramp at Charlotte’s muscles. 

‘“It is early days,” Mr Brooks tells her, “We’ll know more when it is fully healed.”

In the meantime, her father has purchased a slim wooden cane, sturdy enough to bear a surprising amount of weight. Charlotte is yet to use it, firmly bedridden for another week. She is too optimistic to have much fear of the changes that this might entail, and although the prospect of continued pain is daunting, the memory of the accident and its potential for even greater loss is too fresh in her mind for her to feel anything but relief. 

“You are a dear, sensible girl.” Mrs Derney tells her, lamenting that she must leave Charlotte to join her husband in Portsmouth now that their honeymoon - brief and rather unpleasant though it turned out to be - is at an end. 

Charlotte feels too bored to be considered sensible, but she thanks Mrs Derney and wishes her pleasant voyaging, and her aunt leaves with the promise to write many letters. 

Now that Charlotte is out of immediate danger, Mr Heywood begins to fret about his wife. The doctor believes Charlotte neither should nor could be moved for at least another fortnight, perilously near the time when Charlotte’s newest sibling is to be born. 

There is nothing to be done, however, and Charlotte’s mother has already written to that effect. Mr Heywood was sparse with the details of the accident, reluctant to alarm his wife. He tells her only that Charlotte hurt her leg in a carriage accident, and that they are detained until it heals. Charlotte’s mother playfully responds that she is glad to have him worrying at a distance, rather than under her feet all the time. She shall get more done with him from home, she declares, and Charlotte and her father smile at one another to read her cheerful missive. 

Mr Heywood spends the mornings reading to his daughter, and whilst Charlotte delights in his company, she is frustrated at the slowness of his pace. Indeed, the slowness of her life is what distresses her the most. She is intimately familiar with the small room she inhabits, its single cot and high window which looks out directly onto the street through thick muslin curtains, for her room is on the ground floor of the inn. The doctor had thought the ground floor best, considering the state of Charlotte’s leg, and the innkeeper had offered up the small room he used on nights he was too tired to return to his home, or for his own personal guests. As such, the room is more homely than many others that might be found in an inn, but even its quaint comforts became dull after endless hours in their company. 

Charlotte longs for fresh air, and after lunch every day she encourages her father to take it for her, so that he might come back and tell her of some incident he has witnessed, and imagine it herself as though she were free to roam the streets of the seaside town. 

While he is gone, Charlotte asks the maid to open the window. She lies in bed, watching the muslin curtains flutter as they keep her privacy, listening to the murmur and bustle of the street and inhaling deep lungfuls of salty air. 

She wishes secretly that each day might be the one that Mr Parker - Edward, Edmund, Eliot Parker - comes to call so that she may thank him, but he never does. Undaunted, Charlotte asks the maid for scraps of cloth and sets to work hemming and embroidering a replica handkerchief to replace the one which she has stained. No matter how large, how deliberately clumsy she makes her stitches, she cannot recapture the blundering charm of the original. 

Resigned to her limitations, Charlotte reads instead. Anything she can get her hands on, galloping through the pages of novels and essays alike. Surprisingly, the innkeeper has a small collection of the Greek classics, and she keeps the philosophers for her father to read, finding his slow deep voice lends the philosophers’ complicated trains of thought a calm weight that lulls her into introspection and allows her to find clarity within the dense text. 

At night her father retires to an upstairs room, although in the early days of her recovery he insisted on sleeping in the armchair which he now only occupies during the day. Charlotte is used to the noise of the bar, though Sanditon hardly attracts rowdy customers. 

Just over two weeks after the accident, Charlotte is allowed to walk for the first time. Her steps are hesitant and stumbling, her leg tugging with disuse and an unfamiliar pain, but she rejoices at the chance for movement. 

Mr Brooks is pleased, making her try a few simple exercises before sending her back to bed. Charlotte begs to be allowed outside, but Mr Brooks is cautious and refuses. 

“Tomorrow.” He promises, and Charlotte smiles and swallows her disappointment. 

That evening she tosses and turns, unable to get comfortable. She longs to practise walking again, and as the noise from the bar dies away to silence her frustration builds. It is near the early hours of the morning when Charlotte wrestles her more obedient inclinations into submission and plans her escape. 

Carefully Charlotte sits up and swings her legs to the floor, lifting the injured leg - her left - so that it is not jostled. She reaches for the cane that sits propped next to the small table and stands slowly. Happily, she finds that she can easily support her weight with the aid of the cane, but she makes sure her steps are slow and careful, unwilling to strain her body and risk more time trapped in the tiny room. Only to the door, she promises herself, so that she may go outside. Her father had offered to carry her out and sit on the beach one day, but Charlotte was doubtful of his ability to lift her securely and had tactfully declined. She knows he would have offered to pay for a chair if she had seemed more enthusiastic, but their enforced stay has been enough of an unforeseen expense, and she has no wish to put another worried line in her father’s forehead by demanding more help than she strictly requires. Far better, in any case, to be able to go out by herself, and catch Sanditon unawares and in the throes of slumber. 

She makes it to the doorway of her bedroom without incident, and into the dark corridor outside. The taproom is to her right, and Charlotte sees that it is empty, the last embers of the fire dying in the hearth and the tang of stale beer hanging in the air. 

Wrinkling her nose she hobbles forward, even more desperate to reach the door that leads to the clean night air beyond. 

The latch clunks loudly as Charlotte’s fingers slip, but no one stirs. Charlotte tugs at the door but it doesn’t open, and Charlotte realises it must be bolted from the inside. Fumbling, she finds the bolt and it slides back easily, the door finally swinging inwards on its heavy hinges. 

Charlotte stumbles forwards, grinning in anticipation as she lifts her nose into the air to inhale deeply, feeling a slight breeze against her cheeks. She closes her eyes to savour the sensation, and consequently jumps out of her skin when a deep voice emerges from the dark to her right. 

“You’re an odd kind of thief.”

Charlotte jumps and whirls, protests already on her lips. She has no chance to reply though, as her hand drops the cane and her balance tips sideways. She tilts, her leg twinging at the sudden movement. She gasps with pain even as she braces for the inevitable fall. It never comes, as two hands wrap around her arms and steady her, and she finds herself face to face with the elusive Mr Parker. 

“You were outside all this time!” She exclaims without thinking, “Oh how typical!”

He quirks an eyebrow in her face, his features becoming more distinct as her eyes adjust to the light. He looks even more mysterious half-shrouded in darkness, even more sad in spite of the amusement on his face. Charlotte blushes as she realises she is the cause of his mirth. 

“I assure you I have been inside just as often,” He grins at her, “The taproom is a good acquaintance of mine.”

Rattled by his abrasive humour, to her horror Charlotte finds herself snapping at him. “Then you might have ventured further to my room and saved me the trip outside.”

“My apologies,” Mr Parker leans back, assuring himself that Charlotte can bear her own weight before he leans down to pick up and hand her the cane. “I was not aware I was meant to be attending on any young ladies in their private rooms.”

Charlotte blushes more deeply at the implication, hoping the darkness hides her embarrassment. “You know what I meant,” She huffs, “I wished to thank you, and I am vexed you did not give me the opportunity.”

“And what a thanks I am receiving!” Mr Parker laughs, before his expression becomes more serious. His eyes flit up and down, taking in Charlotte’s unsteady stance and the cane on which she leans once more. Recognition lights his face. “You are the girl from the coach.”

“Am I so forgettable?” Charlotte snaps bitterly. She feels embarrassed and cross, to have wasted so many hours wishing she might see and thank him, only to find him utterly infuriating! Her leg hurts, and she blames the pain for her shortness of temper even though she knows it has little enough to do with it. It is her fancy that has let her down, and her pride that is hurt. He barely remembers her.

“Hardly,” Mr Parker is saying, and Charlotte refocuses to find his expression still grave. “I assure you the incident made quite an impression on me. I was relieved to hear you had recovered well from the fever.”

“Thank you,” Charlotte tells him, “I wanted-”

She stops. Her wish that he might call upon her seems ridiculous now. What could she have meant to him, after all? It was he who obliged her with the rescue, he owed her nothing further. 

“You wanted?” Mr Parker prompts, and Charlotte resigns herself to speaking her mind, ridiculous though it may be. 

“I wanted to thank you.” She says, with as much dignity as she can muster, “and I wished that you might call, so that I could do so.”

“Forgive me.” The amusement has returned to his eyes, and he steps backwards to execute a formal bow, “I am at your service. Thank away.”

He grins unreservedly, and Charlotte sees the years fall off his face. He cannot be much over twenty, she thinks, and though it seems an age of years away to her, it strikes her that twenty is not so very old. She has thought of him as a young man, but now he seems a boy, lighter and more playful than the brooding rescuer she remembers from the delirium of the accident.

She curtsies awkwardly, laughing slightly at her own ungainliness. “Thank you.” She says sincerely, finding that all her irritation has melted away as swiftly as it came. Never before has someone caused her moods to change so quickly, or with such extreme depths of passionate anger or joy, and Charlotte finds herself simultaneously enthralled and bewildered. 

“My pleasure.” Mr Parker smiles at her, and it is the middle of the night but Charlotte swears for a moment that it is as though the sun has risen. 

“Oh!” She exclaims, remembering suddenly the second part of her mission. “Your handkerchief!”

The smile vanishes from his face as quickly as it had appeared, and Charlotte is at a loss to know why. She fishes in the pocket of her skirt, knowing it is tucked away in there. She has taken to keeping it close to her as a kind of talisman against the boredom of these past weeks, her interaction with Mr Parker and the dreaded return of his handkerchief the only excitement she truly had to anticipate. 

“There!” She holds it out to him triumphantly, but his face remains stony. “I am sorry,” She falters, remembering the stain that mars what must be a deeply personal item, “We washed it but it wouldn’t come out.”

He frowns, seeming puzzled, and slowly reaches out to take it from her. The confusion fades from his face as he observes the crescent shaped mark daubed in Charlotte’s dried blood. Charlotte feels sudden tears prickle to her eyes as she awaits his response, anxious that he will be angry or annoyed. 

“It looks like a moon.” Is all that Mr Parker says, and Charlotte is startled from her worry by his strange response. He seems absorbed by the cloth, and Charlotte’s gaze flickers between the handkerchief and his face as she blinks away her distress. 

“I suppose it does,” she says slowly, “A crescent moon, perhaps?” She leans her head over it to see it more clearly, although she has inspected it often enough to know its shape well. She always thought of it as a letter C, like her own initial, but of course Mr Parker has no reason to make that connection. “Very like a crescent moon.” She decides. 

“Or an eclipse.” Mr Parker mutters to himself, and Charlotte gives up on understanding him. 

“I wasn’t sure whether to give it back.” She admits, “I tried making you a replacement but it wasn’t as good.”

“Good,” he snorts, not looking up from the lopsided handkerchief. “Your assessment of its worth is too kind.”

“It is earnest.” Charlotte says without thinking, a half-smile on her face. Mr Parker’s eyes dart to hers, and she is startled by the intensity of his expression.

“Perhaps.” He allows after a moment, and a strange peace falls between them. The breeze dances past Charlotte’s cheeks once more, and she shivers even as she leans into it. 

“You should go inside.” Mr Parker observes, and Charlotte sighs. 

“But it is so much better to be out here, and close to the sea.” Charlotte closes her eyes and wraps her right arm around her middle, hugging herself. She declares a flight of fancy aloud, too enraptured by the moment to care for the suitability of sharing her thoughts. “I wish I might board a boat and sail around the coast, discover all the forgotten coves and study the currents. Maybe follow them all over the world. There’s something about the sight and smell of the sea here that feels so free, don’t you think?”

Mr Parker is silent for long enough to make her feel awkward, but when he replies his tone is considering, not dismissive.

“Perhaps you are right.” He says, “Perhaps there is freedom to be pursued on the sea.”

Charlotte opens her eyes and smiles at him, and though the wide grin from earlier does not return, his lips quirk in answer to her own. 

“Go on an adventure for me.” She instructs him playfully, waving a hand in a regal gesture and he makes a mocking bow in response. 

“As the lady demands.” He declares grandly, and Charlotte feels a shiver at the deep timbre of his voice. 

She laughs quietly in response, and their eyes catch and hold for a moment of mutual understanding before dropping naturally away. Charlotte looks down and smiles to herself, knowing their brief interlude is come to an end. She turns awkwardly to go inside, maneuvering the cane so that it clears the slight step at the door as she nods a silent goodbye. 

“Wait.” She looks back over her shoulder to find Mr Parker has extended the handkerchief towards her. The intense look from earlier returns, and she does not know what to make of it. 

“But it is yours.” Charlotte tells him, and he shakes his head and offers it again. 

“It did more good for you than it ever has for me,” He declares, and his mouth twists in a wry, slightly harsh way that Charlotte does not like. 

“Thank you.” She says quietly, and takes it from him. Their fingers brush minutely, and Charlotte wants to gasp at the warmth of his touch, but she controls herself. She tells herself her hands must be very cold, to feel such a small touch of his so strongly in such a brief instant. She almost shakes her hand at the strange sensation, but winds the handkerchief around her fingers instead, slipping it back into her pocket. 

Mr Parker nods once and sketches a final bow, then strides off into the night without another word. Long after she has returned the bolt to its place, Charlotte stands before the closed door, lost in thought. When she finally returns to her bed, it is to a restless sleep. Her heart races against the tiredness that drags at her eyes, and her fingers smooth the familiar material within her pocket, still tingling gently from his touch. 

Charlotte does not see Mr Parker again for the remainder of her stay in Sanditon. She recuperates quickly, her naturally hardy constitution winning out against the abuses of her body. Mr Brooks is impressed with Charlotte’s progress, and declares her ready to travel home three and a half weeks after the accident. She is delighted to get back on her feet and to return to her mother who has yet to deliver, and her father is cheered by the prospect that they might yet be in time to see the child born. 

On her last day in Sanditon, Charlotte hobbles around the sweet cobbled streets of the small town. She has not yet made is to the beach, and she is determined to do so at least once. Mr Heywood, indulgent though he is of his daughter’s desires, is concerned that she might exhaust herself. He pleads that she wait until he may accompany her, but Charlotte is too impatient and ventures from the inn by herself.

Her leg twinges after fifteen minutes of walking, even with the cane, but seeing the promenade ahead she forges on. People stop and stare, but Charlotte pays them no mind. She does not mind their interest, for she is as curious as the next person and she knows she must make a strange sight. Her hair is mussed, for she did not have the patience to redo her long braid, and the ribbon flutters sadly at its trailing end. She misbuttoned her coat in her haste, and her shoes are nothing more than slippers, but she does not care. She does, however, feel a slight flush come to her cheek as one woman whispers to a friend, in tones no doubt intended to be discreet. 

“...a cripple, do you think?” Charlotte hears. The other woman tuts and shakes her head, but it is not in disagreement. 

Charlotte wonders if she ought to feel hurt, but she cannot bring herself to it. She is only conscious of a sense of shame because other people seem to feel it for her. Society’s stormy cloud threatens the clear sky, but Charlotte shakes her own head and smiles, forgetting almost instantly about everyone else around her and dismissing their judgement. The sea is at every horizon, for she is at the very edge of the promenade. After weeks and weeks she is finally here. She can see the sea in all its glory. The May sun shines, and the water reflects it, glittering and dancing. Soft greens waves roll up into translucent crests then bubble gently to the shore, and further out the surface heaves like a giant taking unsteady breaths. Far off, so removed that she has to squint to see it, Charlotte thinks she can make out the distant mast and sails of a ship forging its way through the sea. Laughing, she salutes it with her free hand, wrinkling her nose with delight.

Charlotte does not feel like a cripple, she does not feel broken. She feels free. 


	2. Second Impressions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Thank you for your lovely comments and kudos, they are all very greatly appreciated! They definitely make the writing process a tonne more fun and exciting. As you may have noticed, the chapter count has gone up - that's more to do with the fact that I thought people might appreciate updates more frequently than any great changes to my plans. As a result, this chapter is slightly shorter than the first (I hope you don't mind!). As you will see, I follow the events of Sanditon quite closely. That's because I think the development in the show was very slow and lovely and important, and I didn't want to lose any of it, although the changes may grow more marked as we go on. Assume anything not directly mentioned remains the same as in the show, although I've overwritten and mildly altered some dialogue as you will see!  
> I hope you enjoy!   
> As always, any criticism or concerns, please let me know :)

There must be many Parkers in the world. Still, when Charlotte hears the name of the couple in the carriage crash, it is as though it has been six minutes since her own accident, instead of the six years that have truly passed. 

There is a moment, when the carriage overturns in the distance, that Charlotte’s heart pounds with a remembered fear and pain. It does not stop her running to the coach, and for every step she does not falter she prays that the people within will be equally fortunate. 

Charlotte’s leg is more finicky than it was, and inclement weather or exhaustion have the power to make it throb and seize. On these days, she cannot walk comfortably without the aid of her cane. On the worst days, she cannot walk at all. 

Charlotte doesn’t let it hold her back. She rides and hunts and walks with determination, wades into the lake to fish with her brothers even if it results, more often than not, in a tumble into the frigid water. She is meant to carry her cane with her everywhere, at her mother’s insistence, but more often than not she forgets. In the Heywood household it is a common sight to see any child  _ but _ Charlotte in possession of her cane as they hurry after her on their mother’s instructions. 

To Allison alone had Charlotte confided her experiences with Mr. Parker and their brief conversation. 

“Do you love him?” Allison had asked, rapt with wonder and a slight concern that she might have to minister to her sister’s forlorn heart, a task for which she did not feel prepared. Charlotte had only laughed. 

“I barely knew him!” She exclaimed, “You cannot love someone on such short acquaintance.”

She believes, even now, that she was correct. She was not in love at sixteen, she is not in love now. There is a mystery about Mr Parker that lingers in her mind, it is true. She cannot forget him, although she struggles to recall his features and the details of their conversation after so many years. He was tall, she thinks, but she has grown herself. His eyes were dark, she is sure of that much.

No, it is not love, and yet there is a longing to meet him again. As much to experience the excitement and newness of feeling that she had felt when they spoke. It is jumbled up in her mind with the event of the accident, and that too is hard to forget. 

Charlotte rubs her leg under the table as Mr. and Mrs. Tom Parker speak enthusiastically of their gratitude. Charlotte had looked to her father when she had announced their visitor’s names, but either he thought nothing of it, or had simply forgotten the Mr. Parker of Sanditon. There are many Parkers, after all. 

But then Mr. Tom Parker - Charlotte cannot think of him without his Christian name - speaks of Sanditon, and it is one coincidence too many. 

“Sanditon!” Charlotte exclaims, and Tom turns to her excitedly. 

“Indeed!” He says, “You have heard of it?”

“I have,” Charlotte smiles, trying to calm her racing heart, “I visited it briefly many years ago.” She wants to ask Tom if he might know of any other Parkers, Parkers whose names might begin with an E. But she does not know how to bring it up in any way that would seem subtle. 

“Ah yes,” Mr Heywood chimes in, “It was a delightful town, despite the circumstances.”

“My dear fellow,” Tom Parker protests, “What circumstances could mar Sanditon’s delights? It is a beauteous place, a wondrous place. No ill can happen there whilst I am governor of its fortunes!”

“Perhaps this was before your time in Sanditon,” Charlotte intercedes diplomatically, with a quelling look to her father. “I took ill there, that is all. My father had quite the time of it.”

“Ah. Well yes,” Tom Parker continues undaunted, “As a matter of fact, there may be some work to do in that area. We have been without a physician for many years, and I am in desperate need of one!”

Charlotte does not know if it was wise of her to omit her own accident, but Tom’s foot is injured and Mary Parker still has a pale tinge to her complexion. Charlotte has no wish to imply his own recovery might mirror hers, all too conscious of the cane by her side. Her father looks at her for a long moment, but lets her omission slide.

She is too enthralled by Tom’s enthusiastic plans to dwell on the matter long, and she receives his invitation, when it comes, with delight. Her parents look briefly concerned, but Mr Heywood eventually shrugs. 

“Sanditon was a very pleasant place,” He says, “Very pleasant. I remember how fond Charlotte seemed of it. She must have her adventures somewhere!”

Charlotte expects her mother might resist, but instead she only nods her consent. When Charlotte’s siblings and their visitors have retired for the night, she holds Charlotte back and draws her into an embrace. 

“It is a mother’s prerogative to worry,” She tells Charlotte with a smile, “But I am so happy to see you full of life. You were a strong and happy child, and though I feared once that things might turn out differently, I am overjoyed that you have become strong and happy woman. John is right, you must have your adventures. Lord knows I cannot keep you from them!”

That night, Allison lies in bed holding Charlotte’s hand close to her own. 

“Do you think you will find him?” Allison asks.

“Who?” Charlotte whispers.

“The other Mr. Parker.” Allison replies, “He might be in Sanditon still.”

“What should it matter?” Charlotte says, “He will not have thought of me.”

“Perhaps not.” Allison giggles. “Perhaps there will be some other young man who will dance with and fall in love with you!”

“Perhaps.” Charlotte rolls her eyes, “I should much rather walk on the beach than spend my time waiting for young men to dance with me.”

“Perhaps your future husband is a merman.” Allison says solemnly, and both girls giggle themselves into quiet hysterics at the idea. Allison sits up to loom over Charlotte and raises her hands menacingly.

“He will rise out of the sea and snatch you up!” she exclaims, and plunges her arms down to tickle Charlotte’s sides mercilessly, until Charlotte is red in the face with the effort of keeping her laughter quiet. Their mother stops at the door on her way to bed and shakes her head at them, smiling, before she tells them to extinguish the candle and get some sleep. 

“I will miss you.” Allison whispers later, into the darkness. Charlotte says nothing, overwhelmed by the same feeling, and simply squeezes her hand gently in response. 

Sanditon is far more than Charlotte remembered or expected. The town is a bustle of noise and movement, a far cry from the somewhat sleepy place she remembers. She is galvanised by its energy, up with the dawn. She rushes as politely as she can through breakfast with the Parkers, before trailing Tom around the construction work and and gleefully tramping about the streets. Charlotte meets the various inhabitants of Sanditon with curiosity and an open mind, and finds them an eclectic and engaging group of people, even if she does not understand them. Long after they have all departed, she wanders alone for hours on the beach, breathing deeply and smiling to herself. 

On the second day at Sanditon, she pays for her enthusiasm with a sore leg. She descends the stairs slowly, with the aid of her cane. Mary Parker hears its soft thud and comes to the drawing room door, her brows drawn together in a slight frown. 

“Are you well my dear?” She asks, and Charlotte smiles weakly. 

“It is nothing.” She says, “An old injury from when I was young.”

Mary nods, and hovers with an air of concern. Charlotte is touched by her quiet regard, feels fortunate that she has found a woman who combines delightfully the roles of mother and friend both.

“I will take tea with you this morning, if you do not mind it.” Charlotte asks shyly, and Mary smiles and gestures her in.

As Charlotte follows the direction of her arm, she notices for the first time the portrait that hangs on the wall. There is an echo of familiarity there, and Charlotte catches her breath. He has dark eyes.

But that would be too great a coincidence. 

“Who is that?” She asks Mary, trying to keep her voice light.

“Oh!” Mary turns, smiles gently. “That is Tom’s younger brother, Sidney. He is in London at present.”

“Sidney.” Charlotte echoes, and swallows her disappointment as she follows Mary into the drawing room. It cannot be him. 

It is him. She knows it from the first instant that he alights from the carriage, feels it in her very bones. Mr. E Parker he is not, but this is the man who rescued her from the carriage and laughed with her at midnight half a dozen years ago.

“New maid?” He asks, and all of a sudden she doubts herself.

He is become brusque, dismissive. There is a worldly, weary air to him and he spares her no more than a second’s thought. There is no reason he would recognise her, if he were the same man. She is grown up, her hair is shorter and she is neither writhing in pain nor standing in a dark street. There is no reason at all that he should know her again. It if is him. 

She finds herself hoping that it is not, after all. That her Mr Parker is out there still, laughing and no longer sad. As she ponders this happier thought, Lady Denham laughs at her own joke, and Clara plays the pianoforte with a feverish intensity. Charlotte winces from the overload, and although she is unsettled by the strange moment in the woods, it is to him that her thoughts return.

She feels a faint pain growing in her chest the longer she thinks of Mr. Sidney Parker, all dark coat and wounded eyes. 

No, it cannot be him.

The dance, to Charlotte, is magical. She has been to many assemblies at the town near Willingden, and enjoyed them greatly. But they took place in the long, narrow rooms of the town hall where the wood panelling creaked ominously with each step and one danced more with tipsy greying farmers than young men.

Charlotte had suffered for partners at her first assembly, for by then enough had seen her with the cane to be unsure whether she would join the dance floor. She and her brother had whirled half the night away before they got the message - Charlotte Heywood loved to dance.

This did not mean she was always very good at it.

Charlotte listens to the jigs and feels pouring from the musicians corner and her foot taps in her new blue shoes. She has left her cane at home, and is determined to make it through the evening without it.

When the gentlemen come over she eagerly engages them, but both Mr Crowe and Lord Babington offer their arms to Esther and Clara. Charlotte feels a little lost, unsure if she has just lost the luck of the draw or if there was a greater snub intended. She feels out of her depth.

And there is Mr. Sidney Parker to save her, though his request to dance is perfunctory. She takes his hand with enthusiasm, for a dance is a dance, no matter the partner.

Every step, every touch she finds herself analysing with intensity. Is that how his hands felt, when perhaps she held them last? She remembers they touched, this other Mr. Parker's hands and hers, but how did they feel? There is no sense of familiarity that Charlotte can discern. He is tall, very tall. Perhaps she has not grown as much as she thought. His shoulders are broad - broader than her Mr. Parker's, she is sure. Charlotte becomes distracted, not compensating for her left leg on the turn as she knows she must, and she stumbles.

"Forgive me," she says, as Mr. Sidney Parker is forced to catch her elbow, standing too close all of a sudden. She looks up, ready to meet his gaze, but he has already stepped back.

"There is nothing to forgive." He says as the dance continues, and Charlotte thinks she cannot bear this coldness. Not from him, even if-...No. If there is even the slightest chance that he is her Mr. Parker, she cannot bear it. 

Perhaps that is why she fails so catastrophically to make a good impression. Her skin still feels slimy with the touch of Edward Denham's hands, his hot breath too warm in her ears and his words so nonsensical. Clara had made things more clear, but Charlotte has no wish for clarity on the matter. It is a matter she knows she is far better off not trying to comprehend. Nevertheless, she is unsettled, throws herself into what she hopes are lighter things in her conversation with Mr. Sidney Parker. It does not go to plan.

He leaves her, tears brimming in her eyes. She is angry with herself for being so forward, hideously wounded by his response whether it was merited or not. She knows now that even if he were the boy she met so long ago, this man has lost all respect for her. Better than neither one of them is reminded of any potential acquaintance.

She leaves the dance early, pleading with Mary that her leg aches. In her room at Trafalgar House, she kicks off her blue shoes and pulls the old handkerchief out of her bedside drawer. The sight of it makes her tears flow in earnest, and she cannot decide whether to hold it close or simply burn it. 

They are just memories of a night long ago, and she does not know how it can be that they should hurt so much.

“I do not think of you at all, Miss Heywood.” He says, and Charlotte believes him. She sets her chin stubbornly. He will not be her Mr. Parker, he has lost any right to him. Charlotte has given him his chance and he does not want it. Mr. Sidney Parker, she decides, is not worth her tears. 

At the luncheon for Miss Lambe, Lady Denham turns from her first victim and makes Charlotte her second.

"And you Miss Heywood," the lady pronounces to the room, "Do you still pretend not to be in Sanditon to find yourself a husband to overlook your deformity?"

Charlotte starts at the woman's bluntness, though she should not be surprised. Lady Denham has hardly been retiring in her inquisition of Miss Lambe.

"Truly, I am not." Charlotte bites out, and she wishes Sidney Parker were not sitting so close, for she knows he must see the ruddy tinge of humiliation that burns her cheeks and the back of her neck. She wishes, too, that she was not close enough to him to mark the sudden turn of his head at Lady Denham's words, the shock upon his countenance. 

"Deformed!" To her great surprise, it is Esther Denham who comes to Charlotte's rescue. "Aunt you cannot say such a thing. Miss Heywood is nothing of the sort."

"Isn't she?" The old woman is in a thoroughly bad temper, and seems set upon her chosen direction of discourse. "It seems to me she is not whole, at least."

"What does that mean?" Miss Lambe has rejoined the conversation, and heads at the table whip back and forth as though watching a game of badminton. "What does it mean to be whole, Lady Denham? Miss Heywood looks like a complete person to me, though I find I cannot say the same of you, for you seem utterly lacking in human compassion and regard. If the Bible did not teach us better, I might declare that you are without a soul." 

Miss Lambe's eyes flash with passion, and after her devastating rebuttal of Lady Denham she directs a furious look at Sidney Parker, as though expecting him to reprimand her. 

He does nothing of the sort, though Charlotte notes that his hands are strangling the napkin in his lap. Without thinking, almost against her own will, Charlotte puts her hand out to his to ease his grip. He starts at her touch, and she withdraws immediately, unsure why she felt any instinct to soothe him.

The room is still struck with silence after Miss Lambe's proclamation, Lady Denham's mouth hanging slightly open in shock. Charlotte is distracted, her gaze is locked with Sidney Parker's. She steels herself, and answers his expression of startled enquiry with a quirk of her eyebrow and as calm a tone as she can muster.

"Your napkin does not deserve to die for your mistakes, Mr. Parker." She says, making sure her voice is quiet enough to be heard only by him. 

He looks at her for a moment, frozen. A member of the company drops their fork and the sound of metal against china makes them all jump. Sidney Parker looks down at the crumpled napkin in his lap, and back up into Charlotte's solemn face.

And then he begins to laugh. 

He is still cackling as Lady Denham orders them all out, the rotten pineapple in ruins and Arthur shaking his hand to rid it of the stinking juices. 

Charlotte does not know what to make of any of it. Esther Denham squeezes her arm gently as she moves past her, disguising the movement with a flick of her coat as she stalks away. Miss Lambe catches Charlotte's eye, unsmiling, and gives her a deliberate nod before she follows after Mrs. Griffiths with a stiff back. 

Mary Parker tucks her arm in Charlotte's elbow as she leads her away, a worried frown between her eyes. Charlotte looks back and sees that Lady Denham is reprimanding Tom ferociously, whilst Sidney Parker is half-collapsed against the wall, wheezing gently. His friends stare at him as though they hardly recognise him, and his brother Arthur beholds him with fond bemusement.

"Well I never!" Arthur says, "Well I never, Sidney, old chap, really! It was only a pineapple!" He pats Sidney on the back as his brother erupts into a fresh gale of laughter. 

"Really." Arthur repeats, "Really!"


	3. Sticks and Stones (won't sink these ships)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! The weekend has given me a chance to write, so you get another update! I can't promise it will be the same during the week, so please bear with me. I hope this chapter is enough to get you through a slightly longer wait :)  
> It is an endless delight to hear from you all, I'm really glad so many of you have taken the time to comment or leave kudos. It means a lot.

Charlotte swallows her pride and goes to Lady Denham. Mary protests, and Tom looks torn, but Charlotte insists. 

The conversation is difficult, but Lady Denham has clearly returned to a better temper. Charlotte remains stubbornly polite even when asked to give her honest opinion, and finds her own middle ground between civility and bluntness. She even wins a kind of apology from Lady Denham as she leaves.

“I expressed myself inelegantly.” the woman says with a smile somewhere between brittle and fragile. Then, with a confiding air she imparts a final piece of advice, “You know, if you are artful enough, there is many a man who would overlook any such minor deficiencies in a wife. You were born with it, I presume?”

Charlotte knows precisely what Lady Denham means, and nearly bites her tongue on an ill-tempered response. The woman’s words seemed meant with an attempt at kindness, and that is the only reason Charlotte cannot find it in herself to lose all the ground she has just regained for Sanditon’s future.

“I was not.” She answers shortly, “But I am afraid I do not have the arts of which you speak, even if it were to matter.”

“We shall see about that, my dear.” Lady Denham smiles sharply, and Charlotte can bear it no longer. She bobs a brief curtsey and makes a swift escape. 

Sidney Parker seems to be avoiding her since the luncheon, and Charlotte cannot find it in herself to care. Or at least, that is what she tells herself. His mercurial moods are tiring, even if she will admit that they are possibly more tiring to her than anybody else, simply because she cannot help but analyse them constantly. 

She forges her way up the grassy headland and huffs to herself. What should it matter that he laughed or did not laugh? He could have been laughing at her, for all she knows, rather than what she said. Tom had called it hysterical, but Charlotte doesn’t think Sidney Parker seems the sort to be highly strung. 

It matters not, for he has not spoken to her since. Charlotte blows out a deep breath as she reaches the top of the slope and resigns herself to leaving the puzzle of Sidney Parker unsolved. Instead, she takes pleasure in the fresh air and exercise, even though her leg cramps slightly at the exertion of the upward climb. Her cane is at Trafalgar House, but Charlotte is not concerned. She has felt these twinges often enough before, and they pass soon enough with lighter movement. 

It is unfortunate, then, that Miss Lambe has positioned herself so awkwardly on the cliff. Charlotte nearly falls as she makes her way down to her, and as the other girl sobs on her shoulder she bites her lip and prays her leg will not buckle with the additional weight. 

It does not, and Miss Lambe soon calms. Charlotte is forced, however, to ask her for a hand as they return to the clifftop path. 

“Of course.” Miss Lambe offers it readily, and asks no questions as Charlotte exerts a considerable force on her arm to lever herself up the hill.

“It was an accident.” Charlotte offers, as they stroll arm in arm. Miss Lambe had offered it as a subtle support, and in truth Charlotte had no longer needed it, but she accepted the kindness anyway. 

“Your leg?” Miss Lambe queries, and Charlotte nods.

“When I was younger,” She continues, “There was an accident, and I am very fortunate that neither I nor anyone else was more badly hurt.”

“Still,” Says Miss Lambe, “It cannot have been easy. Lady Denham must not be the only person to judge you for it.”

“Truly it has not been as difficult as you imagine,” Charlotte reassures her, “I believe people think that I must be conscious of it, or ashamed in some way. I do not like to be a burden on people, that is its only drawback, but it does not prevent me from doing what I wish to do, and that is the only thing that matters.”

“People’s opinion means nothing to you?” Miss Lambe raises an eyebrow.

“I do not mean exactly that.” Charlotte tries to explain, “It matters, of course. But-...I cannot find that I mind it as much as I should, and that makes it easier.”

“I envy you that,” Miss Lambe says, “I think about it all the time, for it seems so unbearably unfair that people have so much capacity for prejudice. Sidney says I must learn to be less defensive.”

Charlotte nearly starts at the informal mention of Sidney Parker’s name, but recovers herself.

“Perhaps,” She says slowly, “He does not understand that whilst one is undergoing a constant siege, however small it may seem to those who are outliers to the conflict, some defences must always be necessary.”

Miss Lambe looks into her face earnestly, and Charlotte turns her head to smile at her.

“Miss Lambe-” She begins.

“Georgiana.” Miss Lambe interrupts, “Let it be Georgiana.”

“Georgiana,” Charlotte continues, “I do not mean to say that I understand your experience, nor that I ever could. I simply do not wish you to feel that you are alone.”

Georgiana looks into her face for a long moment, then nods. “You are right,” She says, looking out across the bay, “There are good people in the world, it should not matter what the rest think.” She nudges Charlotte. “You are a good person. Perhaps I must simply learn to place my defences where they are most needed.” She smiles wanly, and Charlotte nudges her back.

“Please ensure that your biggest cannon faces Lady Denham’s way.” She says in a confidential tone, and Georgiana’s smile grows stronger, bubbles into a giggling snort that Charlotte finds utterly charming. 

“That woman could not be sunk with a fleet of cannons.” Georgiana observes between small giggles, and they laugh their way down to the beach, their imaginations feeding gleefully on the image of Lady Denham as a battleship in full sail, her massive skirts billowing behind her, utterly unsinkable. 

Charlotte does not know where to look. She cannot look.

She _has_ looked. 

Charlotte feels as though she might need to sit in a church for twenty-four hours just to purge herself.

Although really, she finds herself thinking rather hysterically, is there anything unholy about so much bare flesh, or is it just that her heart is racing so hard she might require God to perform a miracle if it should happen to give out?

"Miss Heywood." His voice calls out behind her, "Am I never to get away from you?"

"Mr. Parker," she calls back, and Charlotte despairs over the fact that societal convention, at this moment of all moments, should demand that this is the name by which she must address him. "I assure you," she continues hastily, "you are the last person I wish to see."

There is silence behind her, and a faint judgemental splash from the ocean.

"Yes you are right," - why is he still _speaking_ to her, can he not do the decent thing and be swallowed by the waves - "forgive me. I spoke out of turn."

Charlotte can bear this no longer.

"Of course…" she does not know what she is meant to say, and gives up of finding anything. "-excuse me."

She turns to go, desperate to escape. Yet, in her haste, her left foot twists upon a rock, the large pebble slipping away and Charlotte's balance with it. Her leg, already strained, is wrenched uncomfortably, and Charlotte feels the abused muscle surrender its struggle to function. With a cry of pain, Charlotte finds herself half collapsed upon the beach.

"Miss Heywood!" Sidney Parker shouts in alarm, and she hears the vigorous sloshing of water as he wades towards her. Desperate to escape a closer encounter with him, Charlotte struggles to her feet, only to slip again as her leg refuses to respond, a stabbing pain throbbing throughout the limb.

Defeated, Charlotte sinks back onto the ground. She closes her eyes and bites her lip with humiliation. 

"Miss Heywood." He is on the shale now, she can hear the soft clunk of the rocks as the weight of his feet cause them to grind against one another. 

"Mr. Parker." Charlotte responds through gritted teeth. She refuses to look at him. 

"Can you stand?" he asks, and to Charlotte's alarm she hears him approach her.

"Do not!" She exclaims, raising her hand to cover her eyes even though her head is turned away and they are tightly closed. "Mr. Parker!"

She very much wishes she could stop addressing him as such. 

"Miss Heywood." He grits out, sounding thoroughly exasperated. "If you cannot stand you must allow me to assist you."

"You cannot!" Charlotte exclaims, the pain is blurring her head and she can feel herself becoming overwhelmed by the situation. "That is, you are not! And I cannot-" she trails off. "Mr. Parker." She says plaintively.

"Would it help." He says slowly, "If I were to put on some clothes."

"I really cannot imagine," Charlotte responds faintly, "why that has not occurred to you already."

Mr. Parker does not reply, but Charlotte thinks she hears him take the Lord's name very much in vain, and quite colourfully so, as he strides back upon the shale. He rustles into his clothes in silence, and Charlotte bites her lip and wishes fiercely that she were somewhere else.

Stealthily, she attempts to rise once more, wondering if her leg might have had the decency to recover. All this results in is another pained squeak and an exasperated "Miss Heywood!" as the commotion of Mr. Parker's bizarre toilette gains a feverish pace and intensity. 

In less than a minute, he stomps across the beach towards her, and Charlotte braces herself. She hears him step around her splayed-out leg, and he comes to a halt in front of her.

Charlotte's eyes remained closed.

"For the love of God, Miss Heywood, you may open your eyes!" Mr. Parker exclaims.

"I truly have no wish to." Charlotte says primly, not entirely sure why she is being so difficult, "quite possibly ever again." She adds.

“For Chr-” Mr. Parker cuts himself off. He heaves out a deep sigh, and his weight seems to shift in front of her. Charlotte is confused for a second, before she feels a touch on her outstretched ankle. 

Her eyes fly open.

“Pray!” She exclaims, tugging the limb away from his hand, “Do not trouble yourself.”

He is very close, and droplets of water are still running from his hair into his eyes. Charlotte notes, rather distantly, that his jacket is thrown on over a white shirt that is rapidly becoming translucent. She averts her eyes. 

“Miss Heywood,” Mr. Parker begins in deceptively even tones, “it would appear that you are injured. I hope, despite the rather unfortunate circumstances we find ourselves in, that you will allow me to assist you.”

Charlotte nods, unable to look at him. 

“Then,” He continues with the same deliberate calm, “Perhaps you might allow me to inspect your injury. Is your ankle broken, do you think?”

“Broken?” Charlotte exclaims, whipping her head around to look at him. As she expected, his countenance is rather thunderous. It would appear she is exhausting his limited patience. “It is not broken.” She should elaborate, she knows, but she is really rather distracted by the water droplet on the end of his nose. He doesn’t seem to have noticed it. 

He flings his hands into the air, and her eyes follow the droplet as it is shaken away with the motion. “All well and good, Miss Heywood, but even if it is only sprained, the fact remains that you cannot stand! I am trying-” and here Mr. Parker makes no effort to conceal his frustration- “to ascertain whether you may be able to support yourself, or whether I shall be forced to carry you back to civilisation!”

Charlotte hadn’t really thought ahead this far. The pain in her leg takes a backseat to the importance of the conversation as she comes to a sudden realisation.

“But I thought you knew,” She says, feeling rather slow, “it is my leg.”

“Your leg.” Mr. Parker repeats. “Pray tell, exactly how and at what point was I meant to read your mind and know that it was your leg?”

“Lady Denham!” Charlotte blurts, “You...did not?” She has no idea what she intends to say, but she is shocked that he is so utterly unaware of the issue. She had supposed that someone would inform him. 

“Lady Denham.” Mr. Parker echoes flatly, “I really cannot see where she would come into this.”

Charlotte takes a deep breath. “My leg-” She begins, then falters. “I have an old complaint that sometimes prevents me from walking.”

“A complaint?” Mr. Parker looks puzzled.

“An injury,” Charlotte elaborates, “From when I was younger.” Is this the moment? She wonders, will he remember? She has forgotten to qualify her thought with the possibility that this might be a different Mr. Parker, but that escapes her notice. It is becoming more difficult to lie to herself.

Mr. Parker closes his eyes in exasperation. “You mean to say,” He begins, “That you have been gayly tramping about the countryside, along steep coastline near deep water, entirely unaccompanied and with no way of locating aid should this _old complaint_ return to you at any inconvenient moment?”

“That is not,” Charlotte responds hotly, “How I would phrase it-”

“Where is the injury?” He interrupts her. Charlotte huffs.

“My leg.” She says stubbornly.

“Where on your leg, Miss Heywood?” Mr. Parker is determined, his eyes boring into Charlotte’s own. Charlotte glares at him for a long moment, before gesturing with a sharp movement.

They both stare for a moment, dubiously, at her thigh. 

Sidney Parker sighs. 

“Will you allow me to carry you.” He says tonelessly. Charlotte swallows weakly. Her resistance is at an end, and as her temper begins to abate the pain in her leg returns with a fierce intensity. History, she thinks grimly, is determined to repeat itself. 

“Mr. Parker.” She says with resigned civility, surrendering to her apparent fate, “If you would be so kind.”

“Do you swim often?” Charlotte asks politely. She directs her question to Mr. Parker’s neck, as it seems to be the safest place to look. He swallows, and Charlotte seeks sanctuary by directing her gaze at his earlobe instead. 

“Please, Miss Heywood.” He responds, “Do not feel you must make conversation.”

She glares mulishly at his ear. 

“I only ask,” She says, “So that I might avoid the occasion in future.”

“Believe me, I do not intend it to become a regularly scheduled public spectacle.” Mr. Parker adjusts his arms, minutely, and Charlotte feels the cold moisture seeping through from his damp clothes. She shivers. He glances down at her.

“Are you well?” He asks.

“Never better.” She retorts. Silence falls, with only the thud of his boots upon the grass and the rustle of fabric to fill the air. 

“I would clarify,” Mr. Parker begins after a few moments, “That I have always found that cove to be very secluded, and if I had any idea that you were prone to-”

“Please, Mr. Parker,” She interrupts, “Do not feel you must make conversation.”

A wry smile finds its way to his lips.

“Touche, Miss Heywood.” He replies, “But if you are looking to fence with words, then I shall continue with my earlier point that you are very foolish to wander unaccompanied.”

“It is no business of yours.” Charlotte tells him, and he looks down at her expressively, uncomfortably situated as she is in his arms.

“Ah, no.” He says dryly, “None at all, forgive me. I realise I am an unnecessary and irrelevant bystander in all this.”

Charlotte fumes. 

“I would like to thank you,” She says laboriously, making no attempt to hide her annoyance, “For so gallantly coming to my aid. Truly you are such a gentleman.”

“Think nothing of it, Miss Heywood,” he replies, “It was the least I could do after so offending your sensibilities.”

“Pray do not speak of it.” She says with energy, closing her eyes against the image he brings to mind. Unfortunately, this only serves to make the memory more distinct. 

She feels him chuckle, the sound reverberating through his chest. 

“You keep laughing at me.” Charlotte finds herself pointing out. “It is very vexing.”

“My apologies.” Sidney Parker grins at the air in front of him, “I shall attempt to contain my amusement.”

“Do you laugh at all the young women you rescue?” Charlotte asks, and she does not realise until she has uttered it that her question is loaded with meaning. 

“I am not in the habit of rescuing young women as often as you might imagine.” He responds, and she finds herself pressing the matter.

“Yet that implies you have done so before, albeit infrequently.” She points out. He flicks his eyes to her face for an instant, quizzically, before returning his gaze to the path ahead. 

“Once or twice.” He admits, and her heart jumps in her chest. 

“And were you quite so offensive to these young women also?” She pushes. Mr. Parker seems to reflect upon something for a moment, before his face creases in a smile. 

“I certainly managed to heartily offend one such young lady. Be assured, she tracked me down and took me to task over the matter.” He speaks in a fond tone, and Charlotte hopes that he cannot feel the pounding of her heart. 

“I think I would rather like this young woman.” She says lightly. 

“Indeed.” Mr. Parker snorts, “I am sure you would get on very well. She too had a habit of disconcerting me.”

“A habit?” Charlotte hones in on his words, concerned. “You knew her well then?”

“Not at all.” He replies, causing hope to spring up once more, “We met twice, I believe. So you see, she beats even you for an ability to be unreasonably troublesome.”

“She made an impression, then.” Charlotte observes quietly. Mr. Parker looks at her, and Charlotte realises that whilst she has been distracted they have reached the outskirts of the town, and his face is now silhouetted against buildings instead of the open sky. 

“She did.” He answers, his voice equally low. Charlotte’s heart is in her throat, a strange swooping in her stomach. Mr. Parker blinks and looks away, and Charlotte holds her breath as his gaze becomes unfocused and distant.

“I never knew what became of her,” He says, almost to himself. “I like to think she left Sanditon to terrorise the rest of the world. She had a strange fancy to take to the sea.”

Dimly, Charlotte recalls her ramblings from that night long ago. He is speaking of her, she is certain now. Every nerve in her body feels alive. She does not know what to make of Mr. Parker’s words, his fond remembrance of a girl that he apparently in no way connects to Charlotte. 

“Mr. Parker-” She begins, unsure what she means to say. He looks at her, attentive. Charlotte opens her mouth to speak just as the door to Trafalgar House bursts open. 

“Charlotte!” Mary exclaims. “My dear, what happened?”

Mr. Parker’s attention is lost, and Charlotte lets the moment slip away. He carries her inside the house, Mary hovering around them as Charlotte offers reassurances whilst her mind races. She is not sure where they stand now, whether this conversation has made them friends. Mr. Parker does not say another word as he gently deposits her on the chaise lounge whilst Mary rushes to fetch a compress. As her eyes follow him out of the room, however, Charlotte swears for an instant that he turns his head to look back at her before he vanishes into the darkness of the hall, the soft thud of the front door signalling his quiet departure. 

  
  


Charlotte does not know whether to avoid Sidney Parker, or seek him out. She is unsure how she might bring up the matter of their shared past, or even if it is worth bringing it up at all. They are different people now, and their recent history has not been the most pleasant.

Still, she begins to carry the handkerchief with her wherever she goes. The initials still puzzle her, but she assumes it must have belonged to a parent or relation. Stitched by a young cousin perhaps. There is no doubt in her mind, now, that the Mr. Parker of six years ago and the Mr. Sidney Parker of today are one and the same. 

The handkerchief becomes her talisman once more, a promise to herself that she will find a way to thank him once again for the service he did her long ago. There is a lingering frustration, however, over the way he has treated her since they met for the second time. She is obliged to him for his assistance, but she remains angry with him over his unapologetic approach to his behaviour. His harsh words from only a few days ago still ring loudly in her ears, and Charlotte does not feel ready to forgive him. 

Nor can she entirely face him after the incident at the beach. The long walk back had intensified, rather than lessened her embarrassment over the matter. Charlotte cannot look at the picture which hangs in Trafalgar House without going faintly pink, and any sight of meeting with Sidney Parker is enough to render her nearly mute. 

In the end, more extreme circumstances force them together. Charlotte’s leg is well once more, although Mary still treats her gently and has become almost as bad as her mother about thrusting her cane towards her whenever she leaves the house. Still, she has escaped without it today, and she greets Mr. Stringer pleasantly, enjoying his mutual interest in the construction of Sanditon. When the crash resounds and the elder Mr. Stringer cries out in pain, Charlotte does not hesitate. 

Mr. Parker is there - of course he is - and there is a moment when Charlotte kneels down, her face twinging with brief pain, that she feels his eyes upon her. She meets his gaze boldly, sets her jaw and dares him to find her less than capable. 

“We need to bind the leg.” She says firmly, and after a brief moment of hesitation Mr. Parker returns her determined look. Charlotte offers up her petticoat, and Mr. Parker tears it with a brutal, efficient force. They work in tandem together, as though they had trained for it, and Charlotte is desperately pleased to realise that after this first moment Mr. Parker does not hesitate again, following her instructions instantly and giving his own without the slightest hint of concern that she may not be able to execute them. 

They stand together in the street, after the bustle of the initial surgery is over, promisingly successful. 

He begins with a rather backhanded compliment, and Charlotte cannot help but challenge him. Remind him that he has criticised her giving of her free opinion twice before.

“No.” He says this time, and "Forgive me."

Charlotte feels a breath of hope. He is looking at her now as even the Mr. Parker of six years ago never did. There is not simply fondness or amusement, but a respect. Charlotte rejoices in his regard, feels comfortable enough to retort playfully when he apologises for the events of the beach.

“I hope that you were not too embarrassed.” He says, and she smiles at him.

“Why should I be embarrassed,” She says with a wry quirk of her mouth, “I was fully clothed.”

He chokes on his laugh, as though he is unwilling to unleash it again. Charlotte wonders if he has always smiled this much in her presence. 

“You seemed embarrassed.” He points out, but Charlotte cannot find it in herself to be annoyed.

“I was merely startled.” She says haughtily, and they exchange brief grins, although he does not call her on the lie.

“Well then.”

“Well then.”

As he walks away, Charlotte’s heart leaps in her chest and she feels like spinning around in joy. Something that she thought was lost feels found again, and she turns back more than once to see him walk away, the smile that dances at her lips not leaving her for many hours. 

“Cannot we rewrite our history,” Charlotte asks him at the river, “If we find it disagreeable?” The way Mr. Parker looks at her leaves her sure he has seen a second meaning in her words, and in the glittering sunshine he seems much closer to the glimpse of the boy she had seen when they met long ago. 

She is not sure, after all, that she wishes to rewrite their history. There are so many ways in which their past might have altered, and she would not give up this moment for the world. The children screech, and Sidney Parker laughs, and for the first time Charlotte admits to herself what a handsome man he truly is. 

No, she is glad to have won his regard. It is better to struggle for something, sometimes. Charlotte is well aware. She knows him better for liking him less, and as he crowns her “Admiral Heywood.” She laughs with delight. 

“I have always fancied myself in command of a ship.” She teases.

“Your grasp of naval command is lacking, Miss Heywood,” Mr. Parker says, his smile charming, “The Admiral commands more than one ship. Theirs is nearly the whole fleet.”

“Admiral of the Red perhaps,” Charlotte jokes as she gestures to the colours of their boat, unsure what to make of his compliment. “Would you truly give me so much power?”

“I would.” Mr. Parker smiles calmly, so relaxed around the children that Charlotte cannot believe he is the same man who storms around the streets of Sanditon in a seemingly perpetual fury. “I shall happily be your Admiral of the White, if you allow it.” He salutes her gently, and Charlotte blushes. 

“Launch the ships, Admiral Parker!” She flings out her arm, and the children jump with excitement. Mr. Parker sabotages his own boat as he launches it, and Charlotte throws him a knowing smile as the girls shriek with joy. 

“It seems history ever has the potential to be a blank page, Miss Heywood.” Mr. Parker murmurs, and Charlotte just smiles and tucks her face into the sweet-smelling hair of the Parker children as the sun continues to shine and the water sparkles beneath their tiny fleet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Historical (?) note:  
> Admiral of the Red was a rank created in 1805, and Admiral of the White was the next lowest rank. The only rank above Admiral of the Red was Admiral of the Fleet, and this was an honorary position which could be held by more than one person at once (or so Wikipedia tells me). You know that Sidney and Charlotte are going to flirt with all the nerdery at their command.


	4. But words (will clip our wings)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know - I said it would be a bit of a wait for an update. The good news is, surprise! A new chapter! The bad news is it's quite short. As you may have noticed, I've upped the chapter count (again). I've fallen rather steadily into a pace of a chapter per episode, so I thought I'd go with it, and I wrote this one and felt that it needed to stand alone.   
> As always, I hope you enjoy.

_ It has all gone wrong. Charlotte pants, furious tears in her eyes as she storms away. She does not think there is any coming back from this.  _

  
  


Charlotte wakes smiling. As she dresses, she tucks the handkerchief safely in her sleeve and smiles to think of Mr. Parker’s parting request. 

“Keep an eye on Georgiana for me, see that she is kept out of mischief.”

The day is beautiful and sunny, and Charlotte convinces herself that in the slight deception of the picnic she is keeping her promise whilst making her friend happy, that she has found the best middle ground to honour both her friendships.

Sidney has entrusted Georgiana to her care, and Charlotte is too selfishly thrilled by this sign of his regard to consider it a betrayal of her friend. But as Georgiana stares her down, arm possessively enlaced with this stranger’s, Charlotte knows what a mistake she has made. What kind of friend is she, to have been so blinded by the mercurial changes in a man’s temper?

Yet there is a part of her that wants to cry out at Georgiana, to protest -  _ I was Sidney Parker’s friend long before I met you. Forgive me. _

She knows it is a lesser part of her, Georgiana is right. Charlotte should be taking care of her as her friend, not as Sidney Parker’s accomplice. She should have made no such promise to him. She wishes that he had not asked her. 

But it is too late, and even as Georgiana’s falsehoods come to light, Charlotte feels she has no right to criticise her. Georgiana might have listened had she not mentioned Mr. Parker’s name, but instead Charlotte must spend the whole day winning back Georgiana’s trust.

She does not know how to do it without losing Sidney Parker’s.

Charlotte spends the day wrung out, mentally ricocheting from one party to the other. Propriety, common sense and Sidney Parker insist that Georgiana’s actions are foolhardy, but friendship and love and perhaps human decency suggest that they are justified. 

Charlotte does not know what to think. 

She finds Otis difficult to pin down, but she can doubt neither his charm nor his genuine affection for Georgiana. They look at one another the way Charlotte’s parents do when they think no one is looking, the way Captain and Mrs. Derney looked at each other in the coach on that fateful morning. 

“What possible objection could Mr. Parker have to Mr. Molyneux?” Charlotte asks herself as much as the couple, for she cannot understand why Sidney Parker should harbor such a cold heart that he could witness their affection and condemn it.

“Why do you think?” Georgiana throws back at her, expression stony. 

Charlotte does not want to believe it, wants Georgiana to stop speaking. With every word she sows doubt in Charlotte’s mind. Is she blinded to his faults by her own attachment to a memory from the past?

The more she hears, the more confused she becomes. Charlotte realises that frustration forms a strong undercurrent to her confusion. Mr. Parker has proved himself such an enigmatic contradiction of everything that Charlotte had previously understood of human nature that she has nothing rational on which to base her opinion. The only facts she possesses are these: Mr. Parker is capable of extreme prejudice and temper, for Charlotte has experienced it directed at herself, Mr. Parker is almost unreasonably strict and wholly distant from his ward, and Charlotte’s own judgement of him is irrevocably biased by virtue of their past. 

In the end, it is the final fact that proves Charlotte’s undoing. Every day at Sanditon has been like wading through murky water, refreshing and exhilarating and full of hidden dangers. For every cheerful splash and ripple, Charlotte has felt the cut of a rock, or the light sting of a small jellyfish. She has blundered with Lady Denham, become discomforted with Clara and Sir Edward and failed Georgiana in her first test of female friendship. 

The only common factor that Charlotte can perceive is her own ability to be mistaken. 

Charlotte knows herself. She knows she is a good friend to Mary and Tom, that she admires them both and would do anything to maintain Sanditon’s bright future. She knows that Georgiana has stood up for her in a way unlike any Charlotte has ever had reason to experience, and that she is the first female friend her own age that Charlotte has made outside her own family. She knows that she feels something for Mr. Parker that clouds her judgement.

Charlotte knows herself, but in Sanditon she has learned to doubt herself, too.

If Charlotte is mistaken, then this must be the worst of her mistakes. She has blinded herself to Mr. Parker's poorer qualities in the hopes of catching a smile from him, or a kind word. She has craved his respect to the detriment of her friend’s trust, and she has allowed herself to feel things for Mr. Parker that have blinded her to the deeper truth of all his failings. 

Lady Denham’s cold smile floats before her mind's eye: “We shall see, my dear. We shall see.” 

The phrase echoes in Charlotte’s head and she wonders in horror if she has become exactly what Lady Denham had accused her of being - a woman in desperate pursuit of a man, abasing herself and her better character to secure his affections. 

Charlotte’s head aches, and with a sick feeling she wonders if she has truly erred as much as her own thoughts tell her she has. 

She wants to believe that he is better than Georgiana believes, but she does not know if that is not her heart speaking. Does not know if it is that same heart that is betraying her better judgement. 

They are walking back to the coach, the young couple despondent over their imminent parting. Charlotte wishes to cheer them up, only wishes to make them laugh. She wants to prove herself, too. Prove that she is not so blinded by Sidney Parker’s smile that she cannot think for herself. She plays on what she knows will amuse Georgiana, mocks Sidney Parker to prove to herself that she can.

In the end, she is just having fun watching them laugh. She smokes a fake cigar and pulls a face that makes Georgiana throw her head back with laughter. 

But then Sidney is behind her, and Charlotte feels nothing but shame. 

“No do go on,” He says, and his eyes are like ice. There is a flicker of hurt in them, and Charlotte aches to know that she is the cause. “I am intrigued to hear what I might say next.”

He parts them, and it is far easier to be angry with him than at herself.

“I should have known you were not to be trusted.” He snarls, and the echo of his words from the night of the dance strike deep at her wounded pride.

She chases him, hurling accusations. Her heart wants to fix whatever is broken between them, but her temper wants to prove him wrong so that she will not have to face how she has hurt him. 

“And I should have known that despite your professed concern you care nothing for her happiness!”

“I would ask you to refrain from making judgements about a situation you don’t understand!” He retorts, whirling around as though he too is unable to let her go without venting his anger, no matter the damage. Charlotte feels a kind of exhilaration from his absolute attention, even as her blood runs hot with anger. 

“I understand perfectly well.” She declares, desperate to wrongfoot him.

“Oh of course you do.” He dismisses, and Charlotte feels belittled, patronised. Can barely process the exchange of words over the rushing of her pulse in her ears

“You seem to find it impossible to distinguish between the truth and your own opinion!” He accuses, and she burns with anger.

“You wish to speak of the truth, Mr. Parker,” She says, and Georgiana’s words ring in her head, spurring her on, “The truth is you are so blinded by prejudice that you would judge a man by the colour of his skin alone!” His eyes are wide and hurt, as though he cannot believe that he has provoked such a response, and Charlotte wants to scream at his surprise that she has enough passion to match his own. She will not retire in tears, not this time. 

“You speak out of turn.” He mutters, but he cannot muster any conviction and Charlotte forges on as his apparent inability to defend himself confirms the worst of her fears.

“But why should I expect any better,” She continues, “From a man whose fortune is so tainted with the stain of slavery-”

“That is enough!” He roars, his face contorted in rage, and Charlotte flinches but she refuses to step back, although he startles her enough to nearly unbalance her. The reminder that she is, so very literally, on an uneven footing as he looms in her face only serves to fuel her fury. He will not shout her into submission.

“Do not treat me as though I am a child!” She shouts back, uncaring of whether the whole street has stopped to listen, Mr. Parker looks taken aback, as though he still did not expect her to meet his fire with her own. His face loses some of its rage in the surprise, and he retorts instantly. 

“Well if you must insist on behaving like one!” Charlotte opens her mouth to respond but Mr. Parker jumps ahead of her, “You do not see the danger in which, in your utter naivety and disregard for authority, you place yourself and those around you, so yes! I shall treat you as though you were a child!” He is stooped, his face as close to hers as the separation of their bodies will allow, and the volume of his voice matches Charlotte’s own. 

“If you may accuse me of speaking out of turn, then what is it that gives you the right to judge my behaviour?” She snarls in his face, “Who are you to condemn my choices when you display such flagrant disregard for the feelings of others?”

“I do not need to justify myself to you.” He hisses, and Charlotte shakes her head in anger.

“No indeed,” She says, and her voice is as full of venom as she has ever known it, “I know well enough that I am nothing to you. You have proved it over and over again, and yet you seek unquestioning loyalty from me. For what? Am I to betray all my friends at a word from you?”

“How is it that you are nothing to me?” Sidney challenges, his dark eyes flashing, “Am I not your friend? Are you not mine? I asked nothing of you that you did not agree to willingly, and if you regret your choice it is only because you are blinded to your true responsibility by an unfounded belief in the false power of _love_.” His voice grows utterly disdainful over his final words, and Charlotte feels a warm flush creep up her neck. She knows he is speaking of the love between Georgiana and Otis, but it strikes a little too close to her own burgeoning regard for him. “You would rather aim baseless accusations at me than confront the harsh realities of the world around you!” He bites out.

“Truly I have been blinded,” Charlotte snaps, uncomfortably aware that his words possess a grain of truth even as she is too angry to care, “But it is not as you think. It is  _ you _ to whom I have been blind! I expected too much from you, hoped for a decency that I realise now does not exist. A kindness I must have imagined. I have been blind indeed!”

“Miss Heywood,” He grinds out, his voice like gravel and his breath a warm wash of air over her face that Charlotte refuses to flinch from, “You go too far. On what grounds have I failed our short acquaintance that have not already been forgiven? Am I to seek favour endlessly from a girl I have known but a handful of days? When, at every turn, I am castigated for a lack of feeling of which you are hardly authorised to accuse me!”

“A handful of days.” Charlotte hisses, and she knows she has taken this beyond Georgiana, beyond Mr. Molyneux or questions of Sidney Parker’s prejudice. It is the old injury, made long ago when a young Mr. Parker did not visit or recognise her, ripped open anew at each successive failure of his to notice or regard her as she has noticed and longed to regard him. “You speak of days when I have known you for years. Years spent in your debt, and at first sight of you I knew you instantly, and you cared for me so little that you thought of me not even as a gentlewoman.”

Mr. Parker’s eyes are wide with shock, and confusion furrows his brow and lips. 

“Miss Heywood I do not comprehend you-” He begins, but Charlotte cuts him off.

“You spoke of me,” She accuses, “To my very face, and marked nothing of the commonalities. You presume that my  _ naivety _ ,” and she stresses the word with scorn, “My provincial, backward upbringing that everyone at Sanditon wishes to thrust in my face must mean that I had never travelled beyond the borders of my home. How pleasant it is to learn that you are so sure of your assessment of my worth and experience that you blind yourself to a past acquaintance you pretend to hold dear.”

“Miss Heywood,” Mr. Parker exclaims, looking quite alarmed. Charlotte realises that her eyes are filled with tears, and her visible distress is causing him discomfort. 

“Of course,” She says bitterly, “What does it matter. I shall always remain a child to you, for you never saw a woman in me even when you thought us to be different people. How can I ever,” She says, closing her eyes and feeling the tears break free, “Measure up to a ghost which you are so determined to leave in the past.” She opens them to glare at him once more, infuses her speech with a tinge of steel, “And why now, knowing you as I do, would I ever want to.”

Mr. Parker’s face is desperate, frozen in a rictus of passion and confusion. His hands spasm around his cane and Charlotte can see the thoughts race across his face. 

“I can see you do not understand,” She says coldly, “And indeed I have no right to expect it of you. It would be far better, from now on, if I do as I should have then, and expect nothing from you at all.” She reaches for her sleeve, yanks the handkerchief free.

“Take it,” She says harshly, thrusting it at him with words that ring like a distorted echo from the past, “May it serve you better than it has served me.”

And with that she leaves him, the handkerchief fluttering to the ground in her wake as Sidney Parker watches it fall, still frozen, his expression a rictus of disbelief. He stoops to the ground, his gloved hand gently lifting the scrap of cloth from the dust of the street. Those who stopped to watch the altercation observe the tall man in the dark coat shudder, as if overcome by a deep emotion, before bowing his head with a furrowed brow. 

The handkerchief is clutched tightly in Sidney Parker’s fingers, but Charlotte Heywood has slipped from his grasp and moves, with unsteady but determined strides, ever farther from his reach. 

No, Charlotte thinks as she storms her way to Trafalgar House, there is no coming back from this. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hides* I'm sorry?   
> If it helps, I've already written the next chapter, but as you can see there may be a tad bit of unpickling to do for our hero and heroine before it's happy sailing once more.   
> I'll post the next chapter as soon as I can, and to all those who have left comments and kudos, thank you so much! I will reply to the comments soon, but I thought you might prefer a chapter (even if it was this one) as a more concrete response :P


	5. Batting for a draw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, the next chapter! Like chapter four, it's rather short, but I suspect the next few chapters will be somewhat more lengthy if that prospect cheers you up! I greatly enjoyed all your responses to the last chapter, so thank you for taking the time to read, comment or leave kudos <3 (to those of you in the comments I didn't quite have time to reply to, I am very sorry. They were still very much appreciated!)  
> The chapter title (if you care about such things - I shan't be offended if you don't) is, unsurprisingly, a cricketing term. Wikipedia defines it thusly:  
> "Defensive batting in a timed match by a team with little chance of victory, who are instead attempting to salvage a draw. The batsmen seek to survive as many balls as possible before losing their wicket, without attempting to score many runs and avoiding aggressive shots. Sometimes regarded as boring to watch, and sometimes as producing tense finishes."  
> So. Make of that what you will.
> 
> *brief note: in my head, I remember Charlotte going to the inn to post Georgiana's letters - I can't remember if this is correct, or just a figment of my imagination. Sadly, Sanditon is no longer on ITV hub so I cannot check. For those of you who clearly remember a post office and are deeply offended by my location slip up, I can only apologise. It's, um...AU?

“Charlotte, my dear.” Mary calls through her door not half an hour after her confrontation with Mr. Parker, “Sidney is downstairs. He is asking for you, but he will not tell me why. Is it about Miss Lambe, do you think?”

“I am sorry, Mary.” Charlotte calls back, angry tears thick on her cheeks though she manages to keep them from her voice, “I am feeling rather ill, and I must beg that Mr. Parker excuses me. I believe Miss Lambe to be perfectly well, I saw her not half an hour ago.”

“My dear,” Mary’s voice is full of concern, “Is there anything I can fetch for you? A compress, perhaps?” More tears stain Charlotte’s cheeks at the deceptions she must spin for this kind woman. She is too distraught to face Mr. Parker. She wants neither to hear his censure of her younger self, nor to allow him to witness the evidence of her present distress. She will not give him further cause to find her weak.

“Thank you,” She replies, hoping that Mary will believe her, “It is only a headache, and I am sorry that I must trouble you to turn Mr. Parker away.”

“Think nothing of it, I am sure Sidney will not mind.” Mary says warmly, and as her footsteps pad down the stairs Charlotte stifles her sobs with her hands. She hears the low murmur of voices, but it is nearly an hour before she hears the front door open and shut, and she steps towards her window, peeping from behind the curtain to be sure that it is Sidney Parker who has left the house. She sees his tall form and hunched shoulders, and steels herself against the sight. 

She never wants to see him again. 

Charlotte realises, now, that all her past attempts to avoid Mr. Parker have been pitiful. Her heart was not in it, there was no thought to it, no structure. She simply did not seek him out, hoped that he would stay away. Or perhaps, that he would not.

This time is different. She plans for his appearances and disappearances, listens carefully at doorways to ensure she will not happen upon him by accident. Sometimes she misjudges it, catches a glimpse of him, but so far she knows she has escaped his notice. 

“Hello,” She greets the man behind the bar as he sorts the letters, and he looks up with a smile. “Miss Heywood!” He exclaims, and Charlotte is sorry not to have sought him out sooner.

“I was not sure you would remember me,” She says shyly as she hands him Georgiana’s letter, “No one else has.” She feels a soft pang in her chest, and stifles it, making sure her smile remains friendly and displays none of the bitterness she feels. 

“I could never forget your stubborn face,” Mr. Henshaw teases, and Charlotte laughs.

“Truly I meant to write more,” She says, “Only I was not sure you appreciated my pestering.”

“Twas no trouble to send along the books I promised you.” He winks, “I’ve heard your name bandied about enough in the taproom, and I did wonder if it was the same Miss Heywood of half a dozen years past. No wonder it is, you’ve grown up so charming!”

Charlotte blushes, “Is it entirely proper,” She asks him nervously, “To be the topic of discussion in a taproom?”

Mr. Henshaw laughs uproariously, “Right enough,” He says, “But don’t fear, miss, there was none of that sort of talk. Only a few gentlemen as could not help but sing your praises, even if they looked mightily disgruntled about it.”

“I suppose I am friends with some of the workmen,” Charlotte ponders dubiously, “But I hope I have not offended them by my interest in the construction.” Mr. Henshaw looks amused by something, but whatever it is he keeps it to himself.

“Don’t be a stranger Miss Charlotte,” He calls out as she allows the next person in line to take her place, and Charlotte smiles and waves at him as she ducks out of the door. 

Sadly, it is straight into Mr. Parker’s chest. 

“Oh,” She exclaims, and his arms shoot out to steady her. She is reminded, instantly, of an identical occurrence six years ago, and as she looks up she sees the same reminiscence written across his countenance. 

“Miss Heywood-”, He begins, but Charlotte ducks away.

“Do not fear, Mr. Parker,” She tosses over her shoulder, “I have no wish to obstruct your path to the taproom.”

She hears him call after her once more, but she strides furiously on. Her leg has been plaguing her ever since their discussion in the street, as though it is aching along with her heart, but she refuses to limp in front of him. 

Soon, the bustle of the street has swallowed him up, and Charlotte tells herself that she is not disappointed he makes no effort to follow her through the crowd.

The night before the cricket match, Charlotte’s leg no longer aches. It burns. She feels lightheaded through the evening meal, smiling wanly at Mary’s repeated enquiries as to her health. In the end, her leg buckles as she rises from the dinner table, and Mary forces her back into the chair with gentle hands. 

“I will send for Dr. Fuchs,” She says, and nothing Charlotte can say will dissuade her. 

Dr. Fuchs inspects her leg gravely, and looks at Charlotte with keen eyes.

“I must confess,” He says in his accented English, “I am astounded that you do as much on this leg as you do. Your tolerance for discomfort must be very high, Miss Heywood.”

“I truly do not notice it,” Charlotte insists, and Dr. Fuchs smiles at her.

“Or you are too stubborn to acknowledge it.” He says knowingly, and Charlotte flushes, unable to deny the accusation. 

“I would rather be outside,” She admits, “An amount of pain is a small price to pay for my freedom.”

Dr. Fuchs nods wisely, “And truly,” He says, “I think you do it no harm, for the most part. The pain is a natural side effect, but your determination to use the limb has made it strong, where others would have left it to atrophy. In this case, I think, you have only over exercised yourself.” He points to the lightly reddened flesh, “See here, where it is swollen? You shall need to rest. To  _ rest _ , Miss Heywood,” He enunciates clearly, and Charlotte nods reluctantly. He smiles and his eyes twinkle with kindness behind their mirrored frames.

“I am afraid I must confine to you bed, Miss Heywood, ah ah!” He raises a finger to stem the contradiction already issuing from Charlotte’s mouth, “Doctor’s orders. If you rest it today and tomorrow, you will miss the cricket but catch the Regatta. Surely that must be the better outcome - it was, after all, your idea, was it not?”

Charlotte subsides. She knows he is right. What is more, she knows he will tell the Parkers what he has told her, and Mary will not countenance her presence at the match. 

That night, Charlotte writes a hurried note to Georgiana.

_ My dear friend, _

_ I am so very sorry that I cannot meet you as promised for the cricket tomorrow - I know you were so very keen that we should hear the church bells as we had planned, but I must beg you to postpone our meeting. I have been told that I must rest my leg, and I entreat you to pursue our appointment only when we are free to do so  _ _ together.  _ _ I promise that I will ensure a second opportunity. Please let me know that you have received this, I wait on your reply. _

_ Your friend, _

_ C. _

Charlotte underlines ‘together’ as many times as she dares, knowing the Mrs. Griffiths has taken to reading Georgiana’s post. Charlotte’s hand alone will not cause suspicion, but she is reluctant to add any more detail to her note. She hopes that Georgiana will understand, and that she will manage to leave a note for Mr. Molyneux so that he is not disconcerted when there is no one there to meet him.

She entertains, briefly, the concern that Georgiana will go alone. Yet, Charlotte does not think Georgiana is so oblivious to propriety as Mr. Parker believes, and though she has been desperate to see Otis, Charlotte can do no more than promise to arrange another meeting and hope that it will allow Georgiana to exercise common sense over her disappointment regarding their aborted plans. 

The day of the match dawns, and Charlotte has spent a restless night. Her leg aches constantly, rousing her from sleep every few hours, so it is that she greets Mary’s smiling face with a pained grimace when Mary brings her a light breakfast tray. 

“You poor dear,” She soothes Charlotte’s hair back, “But I have something to cheer you! A note has been sent, look.”

On the tray, there lies a single sprig of bell heather, the kind that grows in abundance upon the headlands Charlotte likes to walk. A small length of string attaches it to a rolled up note.

“Oh,” Charlotte exclaims, “How sweet of Georgiana!”

Mary smiles at her fondly with a small shake of the head, and kisses her forehead gently before departing, leaving the curtains partly drawn so that the bright light does not overpower Charlotte.

It is only as she unrolls it, instantly recognising that the handwriting is not that of her friend’s, that Charlotte realises the note has no address. Georgiana is confined to Mrs Griffith’s rooms, could not have found time to deliver it by hand as this note must have been. 

_ Miss Heywood,  _ Charlotte reads with trepidation, knowing the identity of her correspondent without having to glance at the signature. 

_ I am well aware that you have no wish to speak with me, of that you have made yourself very clear. And yet, I beg that you will allow me a moment of your time after the cricket match is at an end. I feel there are things we must discuss, and I cannot let them go unsaid any longer. At the very least, I owe you an apology for the way I addressed you when last we spoke. It was unmannerly, and I did not behave like a gentleman. _

_ I was sorry to hear that you were taken ill last night, and I hope you will be recovered enough to grant me my request. If not, I beg that you give me your time when you are well. I shall wait upon your command. _

_ I do not know if you are one for flowers, but I hope that this piece of the outside world will be token enough to sustain you through your brief sojourn indoors.  _

_ Yours, _

_ Sidney Parker _

Charlotte reads the note three times before she is certain that she understands it. She does not know what to make of it. No one has ever sent her flowers, big or small, and she has never before received a note from a gentleman. 

She traces the letter again, noting the strong elegance of his hand. Small blobs of ink dot the page in various places, as though he had hesitated before writing, the pen hovering above the page in indecision. Charlotte wonders if they are vestiges of his ever-present impulse to chastise her, and marvels wryly that he has managed to restrain himself so successfully. 

Despite the skepticism Charlotte forces herself into, she cannot calm the racing of her heart. There is something intimate in holding something so deliberately crafted by him, an inherent promise that she is worth the effort he has gone to, that he is determined to not only give his own attention but  _ demand _ hers in return.

Or rather, entreat it. 

Charlotte is so tired of being angry with him, and she reads and rereads his note until a silly smile blossoms on her face each time she catches sight of the small sprig of heather. Heather that he picked  _ for her. _

She  _ is  _ angry with him, of course she is still angry with him. She owes it to Georgiana, at the least, to maintain her distance.

But perhaps, Charlotte thinks, it would not be so very bad to speak with him. They were so close to being friends before the confrontation over Mr. Molyneux, and it would surely aid Georgiana more to have Mr. Parker’s ear, to be able to  _ show _ him the truth of the affection between her and Otis rather than demanding it of him in anger. 

Charlotte is so busy pondering whether or not to grant Mr. Parker’s request, that she nearly forgets she is expecting reply from Georgiana. 

“Nothing?” She asks of Mary anxiously just before the Parkers depart for the match. Mary shakes her head.

“Miss Lambe will not be so starved for company,” She says kindly, “We will all miss you, but I’m sure her lack of response only denotes the bustle of preparation for the match, not any offense she has taken in your absence.”

“No.” Charlotte says, “No you are right.”

But a suspicion is brewing in her breast, and as the house grows quiet and the clock ticks towards four, Charlotte grows more and more frantic. Georgiana would not, she thinks, attempt it alone. 

But then again, Georgiana would. 

The clock is close to striking a quarter to when Charlotte can bear her anxiety no longer. She flings off the bedding and grasps for her cane, limping across to the dresser where she extracts a neatly folded frock. Clumsily, leaning heavily on the bedpost for support, she dresses herself in haste, not bothering to fetch a bonnet. 

She hurries down the stairs as fast as she is able, her leg uncomfortable but not impossible. This, Charlotte can manage. As far as the coaching inn at least, and there she can meet Mr. Molyneux herself, if he is there, and explain the situation to him even as she reassures herself of Georgiana’s absence. 

Of course, the irony of this is not lost on Charlotte. She knows that when Georgiana discovers she was out of bed and meeting Mr. Molyneux in her place, she will no doubt be distraught. Charlotte grits her teeth against a blinding sheet of pain as her leg bangs against the door as it swings shut too sharply. 

She will have to handle Georgiana’s feelings of betrayal once she has ascertained that she is safe.

Her leg is slower than it has ever been, even with the cane, and Charlotte is dismayed to see the clocks in the pawn shop window show nearly five minutes past the hour as she limps past. At last, the coach’s stop comes into view, and Charlotte races forwards as quickly as she can when she sees that the carriage is already there.

A muffled shout greets her ears, and she gasps in dismay as she sees Georgiana, utterly alone, wrestled into the carriage by complete strangers.

“Georgiana!” She cries out, her friend's head swinging round to glimpse her just as she disappears from view. “Help, somebody!”

The town is deserted, half its occupants at the beach to observe the match. Charlotte staggers forwards, but the coach is already rumbling away, the horses picking up the pace as the driver cracks the whip.

“Wait!” Charlotte screams, but the coach and its occupants pay no notice.

Charlotte hits her cane against every door and window she can find, but gains no response. Desperate, she turns at last to the long road which leads to the beach, and gritting her teeth she pushes herself towards it.

The sun is hot, and Charlotte’s hand is slippery with sweat on her cane. The walk is but a half an hour at full speed, but it takes Charlotte nearly three times that to reach the long flat stretch of sand that marks the cricket ground. She finds it in uproar, the workers remonstrating with Sidney Parker as the crowd murmurs and talks amongst themselves. Any game of cricket has long since been abandoned.

“Mary!” Charlotte calls out, but she cannot see her or Tom. Mrs Griffiths, in the distance, is dashing in and out of the mass of people, her face panicked. Charlotte tries to catch her attention, waving weakly from the dunes, but the woman pays her no mind. 

“Mr. Parker.” Charlotte gasps quietly, her throat dried out and hoarse from the screams she had directed at the carriage. “Mr. Parker!” She cries again, as loudly as she can. 

She sees the moment he hears her, and like a bloodhound catching a scent his form goes stiff and he turns, instantly locating her amongst the dunes.

“Miss Heywood,” Charlotte sees her name form on his lips, but she cannot hear him as her blood rushes, suddenly, to her ears. She sways on the spot, lips dry and head pounding. 

Mr. Parker has started towards her, James Stringer close behind. They race across the sand, and Charlotte’s vision seems to tunnel until all she can see is Sidney’s face, concern writ large upon every feature.

He reaches her just in time to catch her as she pitches forward.

“Miss Heywood,” A large palm tilts her face towards his, and Charlotte feels herself gasping like a fish out of water. 

“Miss Heywood!” Sidney’s face is close to hers, eyes darting furiously over her face. “Charlotte, what is wrong?”

“Georgiana,” She gasps out, and he leans close to catch her words, head tilting so that he may hear her better, “They took her. Men in the coach. I tried to stop them, Mr. Parker.” She grasps his shirt, pulls him closer still so that her lips nearly brush his ear. “You must save her. They took the road to London. You must go  _ now _ .” She breathes the last command as fiercely as she can manage, sees him draw back to look her in the face, and pours as much desperation as she can into her eyes in the brief moment before they roll up into her head, and her world becomes darkness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have - say it with me guys - d i v e r g e n c e. I'm sorry Charlotte didn't get to play cricket, it killed me a little inside because every badass Charlotte moment is a moment that needs to be treasured, but I promise I have my reasons. I know I keep having her fall into Sidney's arms, but I swear in my head she's a strong, independent woman.   
> Also, for those of you on tenterhooks about Sidney's reaction to Charlotte's reveal (I promise I have my reasons for that too), let me just say this: heather can often symbolise "admiration, beauty and good luck, and it can also be associated with solitude and protection".  
> Who knows whether or not Sidney Parker has an encyclopaedic knowledge of the language of flowers. I personally picked it because it grows on headlands near the sea, and Sidney probably did too but. You decide.


	6. Our hearts keep bleeding (so we know they're beating)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want you all to know I've messed up my own chapter count, and I hope you're happy. The truth is, I bashed this out this evening and couldn't wait to post it.  
> So um, second chapter of the night? *fails at playing it cool*
> 
> *Historical note (sort of) - it's never clear exactly where Sanditon is, but it does seem to be within a day's striking distance of London. I have a feeling it might be canonically closer to Brighton, but as you may remember I took a stab in the first chapter and had it a few miles down the coast from Portsmouth. The faster stage coaches regularly went between Portsmouth and London at least twice a day, with the journey taking about nine hours, so that's the journey route/time I'm going with.

When Charlotte wakes, it is to her room at Trafalgar House. The curtains are drawn, and her room is dark. A light flickers underneath the door, and there is a glass of water on her bedside table. Charlotte gulps it down it thirstily, and swings her legs out of bed. Her head aches slightly, but her leg only trembles faintly when she puts weight on it.

Finding her cane, which has been propped carefully against the cabinet to the side of her bed, Charlotte goes to the door and into the corridor beyond. 

She meets Mary coming up the stairs.

“Charlotte!” She exclaims, and there is a heaviness to her brow that had not been there this morning. Was it for Georgiana? Charlotte wondered, or had something else happened? “I was just coming upstairs to look in on you.”

She smiles and takes Charlotte’s hand.

“Can you walk?” She asks, and Charlotte nods slightly, “I have left a light supper in the dining room, but I was not sure whether you would want it in bed when you woke. Dr. Fuchs said you had been fatigued by the heat. You should not have gone out in the sun without your bonnet.”

The rebuke is gentle but brooks no opposition, and since Mary says nothing of the fact Charlotte walked nearly a mile and a half when she was meant to be on strict bedrest, Charlotte thinks she has got away lightly. 

“Mr. Parker?” She asks, and Mary’s face falls. 

“Tom has gone to London,” She says, misunderstanding Charlotte as, with a distracted air, she gestures to the single place set at the table, on which a small bowl of soup steams gently.

“Oh, forgive me, I meant to enquire after Mr. Sidney Parker.” Charlotte corrects as she seats herself carefully and takes up her spoon, “But Tom has gone with him to fetch Georgiana also?”

“Oh.” Mary looks surprised as she sits opposite Charlotte, fidgeting with the collar of her dress as her brow draws into a frown. “No, I am afraid Tom left on other business before you arrived with the news of Georgiana’s abduction. Sidney followed the carriage to London alone.”

“He has not caught them then?” Charlotte asks, stricken. She sets the spoon down, her food forgotten. “I had hoped he might have intercepted them before they got too far.”

“My dear,” Mary says gently, “By the time anyone could properly work out what you had intended to tell Sidney before you fell unconscious, the coach had nearly three hours start on him. He was quite frantic, insisted he must leave at once. But his horse had cast a shoe, and he was forced to take one of the work horses until he could find a stable where he might buy a better one, for there were none to be found here. He will not have caught up with them before they made it to London. We must just wait for news, I am afraid.”

“Of course.” Charlotte says weakly. A stone sits upon her chest, and she swallows thickly. This is all her fault. If she had been faster, wiser. If she had not encouraged Georgiana to write to Mr. Molyneux, or pursue another meeting with him! She has been an instrument of her friend’s misfortune, and because of it they may have lost Georgiana forever. 

“I must go.” Charlotte stands up sharply, swaying once before she puts a hand out to the chair to steady herself.

“Go!” Mary exclaims quietly, for the hour is late and the children must be sleeping. “Go where, Charlotte? It is nearly eleven at night!”

“To London,” Charlotte says, “This is all my fault, Mary, I must find a way to help Georgiana before all is lost.”

“My dear,” Mary protests, “What can you do, that Sidney will not be able to do himself, and faster too? You are hurt, and you are ill. You must rest.”

Mary is firm, and Charlotte realises it would do her no good to insist. She hesitates for a moment, then subsides.

“Of course, you are right Mary." Charlotte smiles weakly. "I am just tired, and worried for Georgiana.”

“Of course you are.” Mary rubs her back soothingly. “Go to bed. Rest. I am sure we shall hear from Sidney by tomorrow evening. He will have her back safe and sound.”

Charlotte nods, and finishes her supper. She makes her way upstairs, and waits for the house to fall quiet.

Then, she begins to pack her things into a light bag. All the money she has, and a few scraps of jewellery in case it is not enough. The address to which she sent Georgiana’s letters, scribbled out on a scrap of paper. Her gloves, her sturdiest shoes.

She lies in bed, determined to wake with the dawn and catch the early flyer. Her gaze comes to rest on the small sprig of heather, forgotten on her bedside cabinet. Tears well in Charlotte’s eyes.

Sidney, she knows, will understand who must be responsible for this mess. He must hate her now. She thinks of his note, the tentative hope she had felt for a reconciliation, and turns her face into her pillow.

There are more important things to think of, and Charlotte stifles her tears. Georgiana, she thinks fiercely, I must do this for Georgiana. 

She slips from the house before even the servants are awake, making her way down the stairs with painful slowness. Her leg is stronger for the rest, despite her exertion the day before, and in any case Charlotte feels too much determination to be hampered by any amount of discomfort. Still, she requires the cane to walk with surety, and must move more slowly to dampen its steady clunk against the wood. 

No one stops her. 

She sees Mr. Henshaw at the window of the inn as she clambers into the coach, but all he does is offer her a gentle salute and a smile. Charlotte returns it, before settling back into the coach with a miserable frown. Her mission is far from a happy one. 

She is alone for the first leg of the journey, but the coach picks up more passengers as they race through Petersfield and Liphook and on to Guilford. Charlotte is jolted and jostled by the rattling of the coach, finds a bare relief in the minutes it spends at each stop as new passengers board and the horses are watered. At Guilford, there is a rest of half an hour as the coach changes horses. Charlotte clambers down from the carriage to stretch her legs, her spine cracking. 

“How much farther to London?” She asks the coachman as he checks the horses’ harnesses.

“Few hours yet, Miss.” He says, “We usually come in early afternoon, bout two hours past noon, if the roads stay clear.”

Charlotte nods and thanks him, clambers wearily back into the small, hot space. 

It is, indeed, early afternoon by the time they make it to London. What Charlotte had not expected, however, was that the coach stopped barely within the London borough. Fields still rolled in the distance, and Charlotte had no idea where she was. 

“Excuse me,” She turned to the coachman again, halting him as he progressed towards the coaching inn. “Do you know how I might travel to this address?” She thrusts her paper under his nose, and he sighs wearily but, with a glance at her cane, he scans the paper as he wipes sweat from his brow and dusts his gloves on his coat. 

Charlotte flushes with slight humiliation, but she squares her jaw and holds her head high.

“That’s a poor district, Miss.” The coachman shakes his head, “I hope to god you know what you’re doing.”

“I do.” Charlotte says shortly, but keeps her tone polite. “How do I get there?”

“There’s a local trap that does the journey a few times a day, deliveries and the like.” He scratches his head. “Man’s a friend of mine, he won’t charge you too much. It’ll take a while, is the only thing.”

“Please.” Charlotte says, “Is there a faster way?”

“Walking.” The man says bluntly, not disguising his look at her leg, “London streets will be packed with coaches and carriages from now until evening and my man will be among the slower of them, but you’d not know the way on foot even if you looked like to make it.”

“Would you write me directions?” Charlotte asks, and the man sighs, whistling slightly when Charlotte offers him the paper along with her tiny stub of a pencil, a treasured gift from Mary. He leans on a nearby barrel and sketches directions in a crude hand, a jumble of pictures and words. Aloud, he narrates them to her, and Charlotte listens closely.

“That’ll take you right, I reckon.” He says, and Charlotte thanks him earnestly. 

“No bother, Miss,” He says, looking almost grey with exhaustion, “I’ve a daughter a touch younger than you. Can’t help but hope she won’t be off gallivanting in London though Miss, no offence meant.”

“It is for a good cause.” Charlotte assures him. The man grunts, and tips his hat to her as she sets off. 

It is dusk by the time Charlotte reaches the last of her directions, and she is almost positive she has taken no wrong turning. Her stomach groans with hunger, and her legs ache along with the arm that bears the effort of her cane. A few children had thrown rotten fruit at her a half mile back, and Charlotte had been so shocked she hadn’t even thought to chastise them. 

She asks anyone who she meets the way to the address, but few even bother to glance at the paper. 

“No charity today, Miss,” One tells her, and Charlotte’s mouth drops open. 

“I don’t want money!” She declares, but the man has already brushed past her. 

Then, she finds Honey Lane, and her heart sinks. The innkeeper destroys her hopes with a few brusque words, and Charlotte finds herself alone and exhausted, no closer to finding Georgiana than she had been twenty-four hours ago in Sanditon. Mr. Molyneux, though she had not seen him in the coach with the men who had taken Georgiana, was her one clue to finding her in the broiling mass of London. Now even that hope is gone. 

Disheartened, Charlotte turns down an alley without thinking, bumps into a strange man. He looks her up and down, takes in the cane and her purse and grins savagely.

Charlotte turns, but the man locks an arm around her throat as she goes, halting her progress sharply.

Gasping, overcome by the stench enmeshed in his coat, Charlotte struggles and cries out. Tightening her grip on her cane, she thrashes it as hard as she can against the man’s shins, somehow catching him with her elbow as she does so. Startled rather than hurt, he wheezes slightly and his grip slackens. Charlotte takes her opportunity, and with an instinct born of years of play-fighting with her brothers, Charlotte whirls her cane up between his legs with as much strength as she can muster. 

The man drops like a tonne of bricks, and Charlotte turns to make her escape, only to bump headfirst into another cloaked man. 

“Miss Heywood?” The man says, and Charlotte has no time to be surprised. 

“We must go!” She says, and grasps Mr. Parker’s sleeve, tugging him with her as she makes a hasty escape. He strides with her easily enough, their pace slightly too fast for Charlotte’s comfort, but she is eager to put her assailant behind them, her heart pounding with adrenaline. 

“Miss Heywood!” Mr. Parker remonstrates when they are several streets away, and Charlotte realises his sleeve is still in her grasp. With a tug, he frees himself, pulling her into a nearby passage. Small and cobbled, it is lit by a single lantern which swings gently in the night breeze, empty of any other passers by. 

Charlotte finds herself crushed against the wall in the narrow space, panting with exertion. 

“Are you hurt?” Mr. Parker asks, and Charlotte looks up into his face and is startled to see nothing but concern written across every feature. 

“I am well,” She says, chest still heaving. She rests her head against the wall for a second, closing her eyes as she tries to recover her breath. He chokes on a disbelieving laugh, and for a moment Charlotte joins him, the thrill of their escape making her giddy. They choke on air together, then Mr. Parker ducks his head and inhales sharply. 

“Miss Heywood,” Mr. Parker’s voice is low, and Charlotte can smell his familiar scent, dark sandalwood and sea spray. She breathes it in deeply, preferring it infinitely to the stench of the London streets, passing the action off as a continued attempt to regain her lost breath. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought you of all people would understand,” She says, one hand pressed to her ribs, as she opens her eyes to look at him. “I have a responsibility to Georgiana.” His eyes grow wide.

“Why would you risk yourself?” He demands, anger dominating surprise for the first time since their encounter in the alley. “How could you hope to improve the situation by exposing yourself to the same dangers she faces? Or worse, as I have just witnessed!” His words fill Charlotte with anguish, not for her own danger, but the reminder of those which beset Georgiana, wherever she is.

“It is my fault,” She cries, frustrated to once again be at odds with him, but knowing that soon the full weight of his anger will be directed at her anyway as soon as he realises her guilt, which he surely must. “I passed letters between Georgiana and Mr. Molyneux, I put her at risk. I should have been there, and I was not!” Charlotte shakes her head, distraught, and Mr. Parker grasps her shoulders, pulls her to face him. The anger is gone from his face, replaced once more with concern.

“What would you have done?” He speaks forcefully, but his touch is gentle. “How could you have prevented it?”

“I could have, I could have-” Charlotte pants in frustration, tears prickling at her eyes as the day’s frustrations overcome her. “Why are you not angry with me?” She says, staring up into his shadowed face. “You are always angry with me, why aren’t you angry now?” 

He makes no response, a small frown appearing on his brow, and Charlotte is overcome by an irrational fury. “Be angry with me,” She demands, shoving at his chest, though it makes not the slightest impact. “Why can't you just. Be angry. With me!” She beats him with her fists to punctuate each word, and as she glares up into his face she sees that he is staring at her, wide-eyed.

“I-” He says, and Charlotte furrows her brow at him, “I...cannot.” He says at last, and Charlotte’s fist flattens into a palm against his chest, fingers gripping his waistcoat sharply.

“ _ Why _ ?” She demands, and the question hangs between them for a heavy instant as they stand, eyes locked. Charlotte’s chest heaves with exertion, and Mr. Parker’s heart beats underneath her palm extraordinarily fast. 

“I- I do not-”, Mr. Parker’s words seem torn from him, and his expression is one of a man lost. “Miss Heywood.” He says, helplessly, and his hand slides from her shoulder to her neck, tilting her jaw up as he draws her face to his. She is too startled to resist, feels the soft pressure of his forehead rest against her own, the throbbing of her pulse under his fingers. The beating of his heart beneath hers.

“Charlotte.” He says, and the world seems to stop at the sound of her name. 

With a sharp twist of her fingers in his waistcoat, and a final, furious exhalation, she draws herself up to crush her mouth to his. 

And she is lost. 


	7. The oldest, the most honourable, the most competent of gods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told ya'll yesterday that the chapter count was gonna be messed up, and the joke's on you if you didn't believe me. In good news! More chapters! In bad news (that might be good news) Sidney and Charlotte have scuppered my plans by wanting to - wait for it - talk to each other. *sigh* What are they like?   
> I hope you'll all believe me when I tell you this story will get finished, but I'm going to qualify that by saying I don't have a concrete plan for how many chapters that might be. I thought I'd be writing much longer chapters before posting them, but for some reason these shorter more regular updates are working for me, and why mess with the muses? At the moment - and as one person in the comments pointed out - I blame Andrew Davies for my subconscious idea that these two end everything on a cliffhanger, so apologies about that. It's a rather gentler ending for you this time (suck on it, Davies) which I hope will tide you through the news that I'm hella busy the next couple of days and really - really really seriously this time - can't promise I'll update daily.   
> I know. I'm a monster.   
> With no further ado! If I recall, we left off somewhere rather important...

Charlotte kisses in anger, in frustration, but before her lips have had time to do more than touch his, Sidney Parker transforms the embrace into one of tenderness. 

He meets her lips with his own almost shyly, one hand still under Charlotte’s jaw as though he is afraid she will slip from his grasp if he does not hold onto her with all his being. Charlotte does not know what she is doing, breaks her clumsy kiss with an indrawn breath and a light gasp.

He makes a small, lost sound as their lips part, and Charlotte’s eyes flicker open to see his still closed, a furrow between his brows.

Charlotte drops her cane with a light clatter on the cobbles, and reaches up a hand to bring his face to hers once more. Without hesitating, Mr. Parker’s arm braces her lightly against the wall, bracketing her leg with his own to support it in the absence of her cane. 

Charlotte could not fall if she wanted to. 

Once, she recalls, being with him had felt like flying. Now it feels like soaring above the city, like seeing the world as a bird must. Immeasurably huge and immeasurably small all at once. 

His breath is warm, and his lips are soft, and Charlotte can feel all the breadth and heat of him against the light chill of the night air. 

Kisses begin and end, but the parting of their lips no longer feels like an end to their embrace. When he does not kiss with his lips, he kisses with the brush of his nose on her cheek, with the light tracing of his fingers against the point of her pulse. 

Charlotte supposes her touch must feel the same to him. Her fingers trace his temple as they shift in place, her hand smooths and crumples the fabric against his chest, the sensation of the rough cloth anchoring her against the terrifying uncertainty of this new dimension of being. 

Somewhere, a clock strikes, and Charlotte breaks free with a gasp.

“Georgiana!” She says into his startled face, and it is as though she has broken a spell. 

He steps back instantly, and Charlotte feels lost. More than that, she feels unbalanced, and he is forced to undo his action by moving forward to brace her once more. 

“That was your fault.” She tells him automatically, as his hand goes to her waist, preventing her downward progress.

His affronted glare restores some of Charlotte’s equilibrium. He is still her Mr. Parker, after all. Yet now he exists with a newly discovered potential for sensation and feeling that leaves Charlotte wholly distracted by his very proximity. Mr. Parker seems no better off, his glare melting into a long inspection of her face. 

“I have a carriage.” He says, almost absently, and for a moment Charlotte wonders what on earth he means. 

“Where?” She asks, trying to keep her voice from sounding breathless as the heat of his hand sinks into her hip. He is supporting her weight, that is all. 

“Near the corner where we met, I-” He blinks, eyes coming into focus. “I have left Young waiting a good while.”

“You did not think to mention this?” Charlotte challenges, and Mr. Parker’s expression twists in exasperation. 

“I was not expecting you!” He stoops towards the ground with an agitated movement, sweeping her cane up and into her hand, “I simply hoped to locate Mr. Molyneux, since we have no other leads to Georgiana’s kidnappers.”

“But nothing.” Charlotte says miserably as he turns to go, her thoughts on Georgiana once more.

“Indeed.” He says, Then halts sharply. Charlotte nearly bumps into him, as she had followed him out onto the street. 

“Mr. Parker?” She queries, only to blink at finding an arm shoved under her nose. He has offered her his elbow. 

“I-.” Charlotte has no idea what to do. He drops it hastily. 

“You need not take it, Miss Heywood.” He says, seeming flustered. Charlotte reaches out to halt him by the sleeve as he turns to go. 

“It is only,” She says, “I do not understand what we are to one another.”

Mr. Parker looks at her with a complicated expression, before his shoulders slump slightly. 

“In truth, Miss Heywood,” He says wearily, “Nor do I. There is much to discuss, but now is neither a suitable time nor the place.”

Charlotte cannot help but think of all the time they have just spent in this same place, doing what might constitute very unsuitable things, and she blushes slightly. 

“Quite.” She says, gathering herself with a prim air to ward off the heat in her cheeks, “The carriage seems a far better place to have such a discussion.”

“That is  _ not _ what I meant-” Mr. Parker begins, and Charlotte taps him lightly on the heel with her cane. 

“Lead on, Mr. Parker.” She challenges glibly, for she thinks he can hardly find her more brazen in this than in any of her other actions this evening, “There is no time to waste.”

He starts walking, apparently instinctively, then looks appalled with himself. Charlotte hides a smile. He whirls around.

“This is not-!” He begins, then stops abruptly. Charlotte raises an eyebrow at him innocently. His eyes bore into hers for a second before he huffs a short breath. “Never mind.” He turns again, leading her through the labyrinthine streets until they are close to Honey Lane once more. A man stumbles into Charlotte, and Mr. Parker shoves him aside with almost gleeful force. 

“I could have handled that perfectly well on my own.” Charlotte tells him mildly as she rights herself, and his ears seem to redden under the light of the carriage lamps.

“Believe me, I saw.” He tells her, and Charlotte nods as he hands her into the carriage. 

“Bedford Place.” He calls to the driver as he climbs in after her, and Charlotte turns to him in surprise.

Then finds herself even more startled that he is not where she expects him to be. She had assumed he would take the seat opposite her, but instead he sits beside her, his shoulder brushing hers.

“Bedford Place?” She asks after a moment, as he sits with a studied air of nonchalance. “Is that not your family’s London house?”

“It is.” He confirms with a sideways glance. His every muscle seems lightly tensed, and Charlotte tries not to dwell either on that or on the warmth of him at her side. 

“But are we not continuing the search?” She asks him, “We _cannot_ simply return home! Georgiana is out here somewhere!” He sighs.

“It is a city of a million people, Miss Heywood, and Otis Molyneux is nowhere to be found. Where do you suggest we look?” 

Charlotte shuts her eyes in defeat. She had thought the same thing not an hour ago. And yet- a phrase rises in her memory alongside Mr. Molyneux's handsome face. “Wait!” She exclaims suddenly, and Mr. Parker starts beside her. “The Sons of Africa!”

“Who?” He says, and Charlotte grasps his arm in excitement.

“The movement Mr. Molyneux is part of! They might know where he is!”

Mr. Parker raps the roof of the coach and gives the driver a new address, and for the first time that night Charlotte feels hope that they might, after all, have a chance of finding her friend. 

“You said we would speak in the carriage.” Mr. Parker announces after nearly ten minutes of silence as they rattle through the streets of London. Charlotte is slightly surprised that he is the one to bring it up. She has been searching her mind for the best way to start the conversation, and still finds herself utterly unprepared for it. 

“You did not seem very keen on the idea.” She tells him, reluctant to admit she has no idea of what, precisely, she wishes to speak. 

“Miss Heywood,” He tells her, “When I wrote requesting to speak to you after the cricket match, I envisioned that this conversation might happen in more restrained surroundings. The sitting room, perhaps. Preferably with my brother and his wife nearby.”

“Why should Mary and Tom need to be nearby?” Charlotte cannot help but ask. Mr. Parker looks at her, darkly ironic. 

“I have a habit of neglecting propriety, Miss Heywood,” He says, “Around you most of all. It was not an unrealistic precaution, I believe, to depend on the presence of my rather more respectable family to encourage some restraint.”

“Restraint?” Charlotte asks, still confused. Mr. Parker looks at her in disbelief.

“Miss Heywood,” He exclaims, “If the events of the past half an hour were a figment of my imagination, then I will own utterly that this conversation may be misleading, but I have good reason to think that you recall them just as well as I!” Charlotte flushes, disconcerted that he has confronted the matter so at the forefront of her mind

“But still!” She exclaims without thinking, “ _I_ kissed _you_!”

He looks at her, astounded. 

“You did.” He says faintly. 

“So you see,” Charlotte tells him, “It was not really a matter of _your_ restraint.”

“No, indeed.” He says, blinking rather slowly. He has lost some of his air of nonchalance. 

“I am not saying,” Charlotte blushes fiercely, “That I would have-...that the same might have transpired in Trafalgar House. I was not-” She stops. “I do not truly know why I kissed you.” She admits.

“And that.” Mr. Parker says drolly, “Is why I wanted to have this conversation somewhere rather more decorous.”

“What conversation was it, exactly, that you wanted to have with me?” Charlotte asks, and Mr. Parker blinks, as if only just realising that very little conversing has taken place before this moment. He turns his head fully to look at her, and for a moment they are nose to nose, the sound of the horses’ feet on the cobbles the only sound.

“We sat like this once before.” He says quietly, and Charlotte bites her lip. 

“I did not think you remembered.” She tells him, matching the quietness of his tone. 

“I did not.” He frowns, “Or that is, I remembered you. But not-” He seems to struggle for an instant, “...not as  _ you _ , Miss Heywood.”

“So I gathered.” She says, turning her face away to disguise the hurt she still feels over his lack of regard.

“No, Charlotte-”, Mr. Parker shifts, leaning not just his head but his entire torso towards her, “Please, do not misunderstand me.”

“Miss Heywood.” She says quietly, glancing at him sideways. He closes his eyes, breathes deeply through his nose.

“Miss Heywood.” He corrects, “Do not misunderstand me. I know you feel I did not value - or even recall - our interaction six years ago, but believe me it is burned into my mind by events beyond even your knowledge.”

“How could it be burned into your mind?” Charlotte demands, turning to face him once again, “You did not recognise me!” He looks at her, stricken.

“Well,” He protests, shifting in agitation before he glares at her accusingly, “You cut your hair!”

Charlotte looks at him for a long moment.

“I cut my hair.” She says slowly. 

“I remember,” He frowns, waves a hand as though to express himself better, “Brown eyes, dark brown hair. A long plait. I remember a very long plait. Ribbon. It got stuck in the buttons of my coat.”

“Ah.” Charlotte nods knowingly, “But I did not cut it. A horse ate it.”

“A horse-” Mr. Parker trails off, looking at her in consternation. 

“I was reading,” Charlotte explains, “Heraclitus. In the stables, because it was winter, you see.” 

Mr. Parker is watching her avidly. 

“I was trying to find somewhere quiet to read, and there was a rather cozy nook in the hay.”

“Hay.” He repeats faintly, a faraway look in his eyes.

“Yes.” Charlotte nods, “Only I had not noticed that Plato - our horse.” She clarifies.

“Of course.” He repeats. “Plato.”

“Exactly.” She confirms, “Plato had come over to say hello, only I was rather too preoccupied to feed him any apples, which was what I usually did when I visited the stables. He got bored waiting, I think, and my plait was resting on the hay bale I was leaning against.” Charlotte shrugs, “By the time I noticed, it was almost chewed through.” She reaches up to her hair, feeling the ends as they curl lightly against her fingers. “It is rather too short to wear up.” She tells him, looking back up to see that his eyes are flickering slowly between her fingers and her face. 

“Mr. Parker?” She says, and he sways forward slightly, eyes moving down to her lips. 

“Meeting hall!” The coachman calls from his perch, and the carriage comes to an abrupt stop, Charlotte nearly toppling from her seat at the sharp braking motion. By the time she has recovered herself, Mr. Parker is already halfway out of the carriage door, although he turns to offer her a hand down. 

“Mr. Parker,” Charlotte asks hesitantly, “We will continue our conversation, won’t we?”

He looks at her steadily, though he seems to be keeping a safe distance. “We will.” He says with conviction. Charlotte nods.

“And, Mr. Parker?” She says, wringing her hands slightly around her cane as she remains in place before the carriage. He waits with a slight air of impatience. “What I said, in the street, in Sanditon. What I accused you of - do you? That is, are you-?” Charlotte does not know how to phrase her concern, her eyes flickering up to the banner on the meeting house before them.

“I abhor slavery, Miss Heywood.” He says quietly, “And though my profit from it was brief, and returned instantly to those who bore its true labour, it haunts me still. Rest assured I could hold no amount of wealth with a clear conscience if it had been built on such foundations. I swear to you, it is not Mr. Molyneux’s race that disposes me to dislike or mistrust him for Georgiana's sake.”

Charlotte nods, meeting his gaze firmly. “Then I am sorry,” She tells him, “For what I said.”

“No apology is necessary, Miss Heywood.” He replies, though his stance seems less tense than it was before, his air less impatient. “We both have much to regret from that conversation, I fear.”

Charlotte can hardly disagree with him, and as she follows him into the meeting house she traces with curiosity the long line of his spine, the proud tilt to his head. He is still so much a mystery to her, she realises, there is still so much she has to learn about him.

And yet - it seems he might be willing to let her try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder, for those of you too desperate to get to the smooching to read my author's note at the beginning (can't blame you ngl), chapters may be slower for the next couple of days, but I'll be spending every moment I can writing so I promise the wait won't be too long :)  
> Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> *Title from a translation of Plato, regarding Eros (the god of luuuurve)   
> *coughs*  
> Sorry.


	8. Hypocrates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's nearly midnight, and I am very definitely meant to be asleep. Instead, I'm posting this. *flings hands in the air*  
> I give up. 
> 
> *Title from a song by Marina and the Diamonds

"He has _sold_ her." Otis sounds wretched, and Charlotte's heart breaks for him. The greater part of her concern, however, is reserved for Georgiana.

Otis accuses Mr. Parker, and finds himself up against the wall with the man's arm to his throat.

"Stop!" Charlotte cries, "Can't you see this isn't helping?" Mr. Parker's eyes flicker, and he drops his arm.

As Mr. Molyneux staggers away, Charlotte puzzles out what must have transpired within.

"Are we not going after them?" She asks Mr. Parker, and he wrings his gloves in his hands.

"They will be halfway to Scotland by now." He declares. "We are too late."

"Perhaps not." Charlotte moves forwards, halts in front of him. "You said there had only been a promise of payment. This Mr. Beacroft does not sound like a man to part easily with Georgiana until he has received the full price." She shudders at the idea.

But Sidney Parker's eyes gleam, and they clamber back into the carriage in a frenzy, headed to Drury Lane. 

Both are too on edge over Georgiana's fate to discuss their own situation, and this time Mr. Parker takes the seat opposite from Charlotte, stares out of the window in distraction. 

"Mr. Molyneux made a mistake." She observes. Mr. Parker scoffs and shakes his head.

"Those were not the full extent of his debts. I assure you he has creditors throughout the city out for his blood." Charlotte closes her eyes in despair.

"Poor Georgiana." She whispers. "She loves him."

"She shouldn't." Is Mr. Parker's brief response, and his brow draws in deeper lines of anger.

"How was she to know?" Charlotte demands, "How can the heart be expected to accurately judge a person's character?"

"It cannot." Mr. Parker says darkly. Then, more quietly. "It does not."

He looks at her, a deep, anguished glance. For a moment, Charlotte thinks he might say something, but instead he turns his gaze back to the window.

"We are nearly there." He tells her. Looks her firmly in the eyes. "You will _not_ be coming inside."

Charlotte glares at him, but keeps her seat even as the coach draws to a halt. Mr. Parker turns back as he leaves.

"Do not follow me." He says, and closes the carriage door.

She follows him. Light music echoes around the halls, and Charlotte supposes it is meant to be sensuous, but to her tired ears it rings tinny and thin.

She finds Mr. Parker in a large room full of-...Charlotte does not truly know what she is looking at.

"Mr. Parker!" She hisses, "What is this place?" He turns and looks down, light horror on his face. 

"Miss Heywood!" He splutters, "I thought I told you to stay in the carriage."

"I decided against it." Charlotte tells him, furious.

"Well, well!" The woman in front of Mr. Parker exclaims, her face rouged and her red lips in a wide smile, "What have we here? Have you finally made an honest man of our Mr. Parker?"

Charlotte is confounded. She fears, for a moment, that somehow the whole of London has already heard that she has kissed Mr. Parker in an alleyway and is demanding that honour must be satisfied.

She glances up at him for help, but Mr. Parker seems equally frozen, distress and anger warring on his face.

"That is not!" Charlotte stammers,"That is irrelevant. I am here as a friend of Miss Lambe's." She firms her stance, and the woman's eyes flicker down to her cane with slight disdain. 

"I have no idea who you are talking about." She says, and hurriedly moves past them.

Charlotte blocks her path, extending the cane in front of her. She is conscious of Mr. Parker moving in behind the woman in a pincer movement of almost military precision.

"You know something." He growls, and the woman looks from Charlotte to Mr. Parker with an expression of dismay. Finally, her act falls away with Mr. Parker's admission that Georgiana is his ward.

"You missed them by half an hour." She snaps, "if you hurry you may catch them on the road to Scotland.”

Charlotte and Mr. Parker exchange a long glance as the woman walks away, and Charlotte sees reflected in his gaze her own mingled sense of fear and hope.

As they hurry back to the carriage, Charlotte looks around at their surroundings and the pieces fall into place. He is not a stranger here. 

“Mr. Parker.” She says to his back as he strides ahead of her, a hollow fear forming in her mind, “Is this truly your idea of love?” She keeps her voice soft, for she is hesitant to give her thoughts any more weight than they already possess.

He halts in front of her, but does not turn around. 

“We must go now if we are to have any hope of catching them.” He tells her, and Charlotte’s heart breaks. 

“Is this what you would have Georgiana accept?” She demands. Then Charlotte realises a more terrible truth - to have kissed a man, unchaperoned in a dark street in London. It is enough to lose her reputation twice over. Here, Sidney Parker has proven himself a man of the world, and Charlotte can no longer hope that he shares her more innocent understanding of their embrace. “Am _I_ no more than-?”Charlotte chokes, almost against her own will, and finally Mr. Parker turns to look at her. His expression shatters in the face of her clear distress.

“No, Miss Heywood.” He says desperately, “You cannot think that!” He clasps one of her hands between his, eyes roving her face in agitation. 

“But I do.” Charlotte says softly, as she withdraws her hand, “And it seems you are right.” Charlotte bares her heart and breaks it all at once, “The heart is no worthy judge of character. My naivety is revealed, and I have only myself to blame for it.”

She pushes past him then, making her own way to the carriage. Mr. Parker is not far behind her, but he closes the carriage door without climbing in, standing against the window for a moment, his face stricken.

“I must sit with the driver.” He tells her, “If we are to stop them. I may have to halt their horses myself.”

Charlotte nods, refusing to look at him. 

“Miss Heywood.” He pleads.

“I pray that you remain safe, Mr. Parker.” Charlotte tells him, directs her gaze at him briefly, “But we must go now, as you said yourself. Georgiana needs us.”

He nods sharply, expression shuttered. Any trace of vulnerability is disappeared, and he is stern once more.

The coach rattles into action, picking up face until they are going so fast Charlotte feels her face drain of blood. If they should have another accident now-

But she cannot think of that. Georgiana needs them.

The fear will be as good a distraction as any from the aching in her heart.

They catch up with them an hour past dawn. Charlotte has slept in fits and starts, not used to spending the night in perpetual motion. She thinks briefly of Mr. Parker and Mr. Young, perched upon the top of the coach, unable to rest lest they fall to their likely deaths. The thought makes her flinch. 

“I see them!” Mr. Parker roars, and Charlotte leaps to the window, rolling it down and leaning her head out, one hand bracing her bonnet. There is another coach ahead, and it bears the arms they have been searching for amongst the other coaches on the road. 

Georgiana is within reach. 

The next few moments are tense, and though Charlotte would mightily love to claim that she cares little for Mr. Parker’s wellbeing, the very opposite is the case. Her heart catches at each failed attempt, and as he leaps across the divide between the two carriages Charlotte finds her eyes cannot leave his form until she sees it safe. 

So transfixed is she by reassuring herself of his safety, that she forgets to look through the carriage windows to catch a glimpse of Georgiana. As Mr. Parker hauls on the reins of the other carriage, Charlotte calls for Mr. Young to halt their coach also, jumping from the carriage as soon as it has slowed enough, her cane tight in her hand though she has no need of it, her legs sure and strong beneath her. 

Mr. Parker swings Georgiana from the carriage, but rapidly - too rapidly - a tall gentleman is storming around the carriage towards Mr. Parker’s unprotected back. Charlotte rushes past Georgiana’s stricken face, past Mr. Parker’s surprised glance and sharp turn.

“I think not!” She exclaims, and with a belligerent swing catches the fist aimed at Mr. Parker’s head with the length of her cane, before ramming her forehead into the man’s nose as he stoops with the force of his unlanded blow. 

Her bonnet rather gets in the way of this maneuver, but Charlotte sees with satisfaction that though his nose is not broken, it is bleeding, and her bonnet has left a deep score in the skin above her eye. The bonnet itself is rather worse for wear, its straw rim cracked and hanging over her forehead in a rakish fashion. 

Nevertheless, Charlotte stands in front of Georgiana and Mr. Parker both, cane ready in her hands. 

“You shall not get her back!” Charlotte declares boldly, and the man looks disoriented, one hand pressed to the bridge of his nose as his mouth twists in an angry snarl. 

“Kidnap is a hanging offence, Sir.” Mr. Parker has come to stand at Charlotte’s shoulder, and she refuses to look at him. “Do you fancy your chances?”

The man falls back with one last furious glance at Charlotte, and the gentleman - though Charlotte can barely think of him as one - in the carriage howls about his loss. 

The three of them rush back to their own coach, Charlotte reaching a hand out to clasp Georgiana’s tightly. Her friend squeezes back and Charlotte cannot contain her joy to have her back. 

“Are you well?” She asks Georgiana, “Are you hurt?” Georgiana shakes her head to the second question, but the steady tremble throughout her frame suggests she is far from unshaken by her experience. 

In the carriage, Georgiana quietly tucks herself into Charlotte’s side as she pulls her broken bonnet off and lays it in her lap, making room for Georgiana as she curls her head beneath Charlotte’s chin. Charlotte’s arm comes up about her friend’s shoulders, and she simply holds her. 

Mr. Parker sits opposite the two young women, and his eyes flicker to Charlotte’s face with increasing frequency as the carriage rumbles into motion.

“We shall reach Bedford Place just after seven.” He tells them, and Charlotte nods, rubbing small circles in Georgiana’s shoulders. 

“Miss Heywood.” Mr. Parker begins, but Charlotte shakes her head sharply. He says no more. 

Charlotte watches out of the window as the rolling fields turn to villages, turn to fields, turn to scattered buildings and cobbled streets and smokey houses. She can still feel his gaze on her, sees it from the corner of her eye, steady and unfaltering. She does not see him turn away once in the two hours it takes them to reach Bedford Square. 

She makes sure that she never looks back. 

Later, much later, when they have slept and Mr. Molyneux has been and gone. Charlotte avoids Sidney Parker. Georgiana’s accusation that he possessed the ability to cauterise his heart had made both Mr. Parker and Charlotte flinch, almost in unison, though Charlotte knows there is something about Georgiana’s words that refers to a matter which remains a mystery to Charlotte. 

When Mr. Molyneux reveals his debts have been paid, Charlotte knows there is no doubt over the benefactor’s identity. 

Still, she cannot face him. She overhears some of his conversation with Tom, realises there must have been more that happened on the day of the cricket than the abduction of Georgiana. 

The three thousand pounds that Sidney offers to loan his brother to pay the workers is an obscene amount of money, and Charlotte grows pale to hear it. Startled, she retreats to the study, where she begins to tidy Tom’s papers out of habit. 

Gradually, she becomes absorbed by the task, the light outside dimming to late afternoon. 

Charlotte sits back, surfacing from the piles of paper with a frown on her face. 

Something does not make sense. 

She seeks Tom out, but becomes distracted from her original mission as he thrusts a cup of tea into her hands.

“Sidney had the maid bring it,” He tells her, and the use of _his_ name wipes Charlotte’s mind of any previous purpose. “But I cannot face another cup of tea, she’s been plying me with the liquid since I arrived.” His smile is gentle, and Charlotte marvels that the man can remain so kind in the midst of his own concerns. She has not seen him drink a single cup since they arrived earlier in the day, nor has she ever witnessed Sidney Parker call for tea, and she knows that Tom has fabricated the matter to make her feel at ease. 

“How are you, my dear Charlotte?” He enquires, and she realises that her hands are trembling lightly. 

“I do not know.” She tells him, “It has all been so overwhelming.”

“No doubt, no doubt.” He shakes his head, “But how so in particular my dear?”

“Everything is altered.” Charlotte says, setting the cup down. “I have not spent a single hour in the same frame of mind, nor the same confidence of opinion, since I left Sanditon. I have found myself at once too naive, too cynical, too opinionated and too uncertain for my surroundings, and truly, Mr. Parker,” Charlotte looks at him in despair, “I do not know what to make of the world!”

Tom Parker chuckles lightly. “It seems to me you have been spending too much time with my brother.” He says with a smile as he seats himself next to her. “Sidney has a way of looking at the world that can turn a person on their head. Ah, no, Miss Heywood,” As Charlotte opens her mouth to protest, he raises a hand to forestall her. “Do not pretend it is not my brother is who responsible for so great a confusion. Your adventures have been difficult enough, without Sidney along to complicate matters.”

“Does he always complicate matters?” Charlotte asks, “For the life of me I cannot tell whether he confounds me completely, or shows me the world as it truly is, makes it clearer in ways I have never understood.”

“Both, I imagine.” Tom smiles. “My brother has had a complicated life, Miss Heywood. He is a conundrum, perhaps to no one more so than himself.”

“But a conundrum can be solved.” Charlotte says desperately. “He defies solution! At one moment he seems determined to keep the world at arm’s length, at another it appears as though he cannot bear to be anywhere but in the midst of all its troubles.”

Tom looks at her keenly. “Indeed,” He says, and for a moment Charlotte feels as though she has said too much. “I confess, Miss Heywood. Few take the trouble to get to know my brother truly, and fewer still are fortunate enough to receive his regard in turn. And yet, he has not always been so. Did Mary tell you of his broken engagement?”

Dimly, Charlotte recalls that Mrs. Parker might once have mentioned it to her, but at the time she had thought Mary spoke of Arthur. She blushes now to realise the absurdity of her mistake. 

“I do not quite recall.” Charlotte admits. Tom nods. 

“Eliza.” He says, and Charlotte listens attentively. “She and Sidney were but eighteen, in the first flush of love. And, at the last moment, she threw him over for an older, wealthier man. At the time it quite destroyed him.”

Charlotte thinks of the young man in the carriage, the sadness in his eyes and the anger in every movement of his body. 

“At the time?” She asks, for in truth it seems that Mr. Parker has not changed so much since then. 

“The strangest thing.” Tom muses, “He jumped about from place to place, spent most of his time in London. He drank himself into a stupor, ran up debts that I will not be so indelicate as to lay out for you in detail. He was, I believe, a broken man.”

“What happened?” Charlotte asks, and if Tom notices that her interest is greater than perhaps it should be, he makes no mention. 

“He went to Sanditon.” He laughs, not noticing how Charlotte stiffens in her chair. “I had just bought some land there, begun my dealings with Lady D. I was trying to spread the word of a new resort, sow the seeds early. I had business in London, but I needed someone on the ground in Sanditon. I sent Sidney. He had no wish to go but, of course, no particular reason not to either. He owed me, I am afraid to say, a considerable amount of money at the time and as you may have guessed, he does not take such burdens lightly.”

Charlotte nods her head, but she twists the fabric of her dress beneath her hands in agitation, waiting for Tom to continue. 

“There was an accident, I believe. The flyer he took - for this was long before he had the funds for his own - overturned on the road. My brother was well,” He turns to reassure Charlotte, and she attempts to look belatedly concerned for Sidney Parker’s welfare, “But I take it that a young lady was injured. It startled him, I think, as these things do.”

“The accident?” Charlotte asks, desperate to be certain, “Or the lady?”

“Both, I believe.” Tom rubs his chin. “Sidney flew back to London in a storm not a week later. He had it in his mind to try his fortunes abroad, I think his exact words were something along the lines of ‘take to the sea!’” Tom chuckles for a moment, then grows sombre. “It was the first time Mary and I had seen anything of animation in his face for nearly four years. We assumed the accident must have shaken him up, made him rethink life’s possibilities and its short duration. He sailed to Antigua not a month later.”

“And the lady?” Charlotte presses, “The young woman he rescued?”

“Yes.” Tom says reflectively, “Yes, now you mention it there was something about that matter that sat strangely. I am reminded-” He pauses a moment. “I believe Sidney had a disappointed trip, before he left for Antigua. I remember it now because he asked me for the funds, he had none about him once we had paid off all his debts. He took me to this quaint little shop, and I went along because I was so curious about his determination to purchase this object that it had me quite confounded.”

“What was it he wanted to buy?” Charlotte asks, bemused by this turn in Tom’s story. 

“Most intriguing thing.” Tom says, “I’ve not seen one since, I have to say. The shop’s owner was dutch, he had all sorts of beautiful blown glass trinkets. I thought Sidney might be after one of those, though I could not imagine why. But it turned out he was after something quite different. The man had a small glass flask, with a wide mouth” Tom gestures with his hands, “No bigger than a small kitten, and inside it there was hung a small ship.” He laughs, “I have not the slightest idea how that ship came to be in that flask, nor why on earth it was so important that SIdney purchase it. The glass was clear, you see,” He explains to Charlotte, “And it cost a pretty penny.”

Charlotte can barely imagine such a thing. “Why did he want it?” She asks, did you ever find out?”

“Never explicitly.” Tom shrugs, “It was a week before he was due to set sail, and he was in an uncommonly good mood. He insisted on showing Mary the ship, and Lord Babington, I believe. Anyone, in fact, who would take an interest. And then he disappeared off to Sanditon and came back in a temper, and he left for Antigua without fully regaining it, as I recall. I’ve never seen that strange curio again, nor has Sidney ever mentioned it despite his initial enthusiasm.” Tom falls back into reflection, and Charlotte tries to piece the fragmented narrative together. 

“He went to Sanditon again?” She clarifies, “A month after the accident?”

“Nearly a month, I believe.” Tom confirms, and Charlotte can hardly believe it. He cannot have meant to return for her sake. Even so, they would have missed each other by mere days.

“The lady?” She asks again, hoping that Tom might shed some light her uncertainty. 

“Ah yes, that is what reminded me, you are right.” Tom nods, “I never caught her name, I cannot recollect that Sidney ever mentioned it. I thought at the time she was simply a figure of tragedy for him, in the accident, but as I think on it, I do not even know how severely she was injured. Now that I look back, I wonder if there wasn’t more to it.” He looks at Charlotte with a soft smile, “Sidney forms his attachments rather impulsively, I believe, though no less deeply for it.”

Charlotte barely has time to process the utter absurdity of the suggestion that Tom has laid out before her than a sound echoes from the hall, the front door opening and two pairs of footsteps making their way to the room where she and Tom sit. 

Mr. Sidney Parker and Lord Babington enter the room, and Charlotte has not enough time to compose her expression or direct her gaze. For the first time since their conversation last night in the so-called boarding house, Sidney Parker’s eyes meet directly with Charlotte’s own. It is all of a sudden as though Charlotte has stood too close to a fire, a wave of heat sweeping from the crown of her head to her toes. His eyes blaze darkly, though the other men in the room do not seem to notice it, and Charlotte wonders whether he has looked at her like this for the last twenty-four hours, and she has only just allowed herself to observe it. 

In the long moments that Charlotte does not break his gaze - she is too startled even to countenance it - a new light enters Mr. Parker’s eyes, too close to hope for Charlotte to behold it without aching at its vulnerability.

It is with a hopeful thrill of her own that Charlotte comes to a sudden, astonishing realisation. Tom’s suggestion - his wild, desperate, wonderful supposition - is not the absurdity that Charlotte had first found it.

Breathless at the thought, Charlotte breaks the long gaze between them. As Lord Babington speaks, she tries to calm the racing of her heart. Searches to discover whether or not she truly wishes to ask or find answers to the questions which burn within it. 

In a moment, her decision is made. She looks up, secure in the knowledge that Mr. Parker’s attention will be hers the moment she demands it. He turns his head as soon as she moves her own, and Charlotte feels a burning, giddy satisfaction at this proof of a notion she is only just beginning to comprehend.

“-And you Miss Heywood,” Lord Babington addresses her with a smile, “You must come too, of course.”

“Thank you, Lord Babington.” Charlotte smiles distractedly, but her heart and mind is too full to process his meaning, and she knows she will be able to give her attention to nothing until she has spoken with Mr. Parker. “But I am really not in the mood to be sociable. Excuse me.”

As she leaves, she catches Mr. Parker’s eye with deliberation, and with a small tilt of her head indicates the sitting room upstairs.

She leaves, her heart a thundering racehorse in her chest. 

She knows that he will follow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Forgive me for making Sidney and Charlotte's road a little more bumpy than the last chapter might have suggested. A butterfly flaps its wings and all that - I hadn't intended to make a thing of the scene in the brothel, but as I wrote it, it occurred to me that it was an important point to raise, and it hasn't fully been answered yet. Don't want to get your hopes up guys, but the next chapter might just be - finally - Sidney's chance to properly explain himself. Hope Tom's helpful splurging of all his secrets will keep you satisfied in the meantime.  
> Please feel free to point out any errors, I haven't had chance to proofread as thoroughly as I would like, so just point me at 'em and I'll fix them! 
> 
> Once again, many many thanks for all the comments and kudos! They are what makes bashing this thing out late at night when I'm meant to be asleep so very worth it. 
> 
> *historical note - ships in a bottle weren't actually commonplace until the mid/late-19th century, but there was a lone dutch example from 1800 like the one Tom describes. Is it realistic that Sidney found one like it? Who knows, but I wanted him to, so he did.


	9. Water comes from earth (and from water, soul)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eh, it's a Saturday. I'm allowed to be awake at stupid times.  
> This chapter gave me a lot of angst, not least over the struggle of trying to find time to write it! But, here it is. I've changed the chapter limit to unknown just because I don't want to frustrate people by gearing them up for a finish line (which, I will be honest, is looming pretty close I think) and then leaving them confused. Once the last chapters are all written up I will update the count accordingly!  
> As always, thank you so much for all the comments and kudos. I have to hope those of you in my time zone are sensibly asleep, but for everyone else - I hope you enjoy.
> 
> *title from Heraclitus (loosely)

Charlotte paces the floor of the upstairs sitting room, unable to find any sort of repose.

Not five minutes after she enters the room - though it is nearly five minutes too long for Charlotte - Mr. Parker gently opens the door. Once inside, he turns for a moment as if to close it, then seems to think better of the action.

He turns to her with a brief, wry smile, stands with his hands clasped behind his back.

"I would say I have never seen you look so casual, Mr. Parker," Charlotte observes of his simple shirt sleeves and waistcoat, "But that is not quite true." 

She hopes, she thinks, to establish a mutual sense of camaraderie by invoking the shared awkwardness of their experience on the beach, but it would appear Mr. Parker is in no mood for it.

"Miss Heywood." He says abruptly, though not without gentleness, "I find that having been granted an audience with you, I have no wish to waste my opportunity on pleasantries." Charlotte feels his words for the rebuke they are. She has not been kind to him, these past few days.

"Truly," She says, "I did not intend to be high-handed, nor to cause you consternation. I am-" she looks at him, entreating, "I am utterly lost as to how to behave calmly in your presence, Mr. Parker. I do not understand you. I barely comprehend myself!"

"I know." He says solemnly. "I have not behaved...consistently, towards you, and any fluctuations in your temper can he marked accordingly with my behaviour, I believe."

"Fluctuations." Charlotte mutters to herself, for her contrition can only reach so far in the face of his innate ability to irritate her, and she receives a sharp grin in response. 

"You cannot deny, Miss Heywood, you have a temper unlike any I have ever encountered."

"Because I am too opinionated?" She asks, becoming chastened rather than angry, "Too headstrong, too-"

"No." Mr. Parker smiles, "not too anything."

Charlotte understands abstractly that Mr. Parker must have some measure of regard for her, but it is another thing entirely to see it so plainly written across his face.

"Oh." She says. She can think of no other response.

"Only." He admits, rubbing one hand through the hair on the back of his head with a faint grimace, "I wish you were not so fond of launching yourself into the fray. There must be some gentlemen in London whom you leave unaccosted, Miss Heywood."

"I was, perhaps," she rushes, "hasty in my resort to violence in both instances-"

"Not in the least." He shakes his head, nodding at her seriously "I found your responses measured to the situation, if...unexpected. And rather brutally efficient." He winces, clearly recalling the events that preceded their meeting at Honey Lane.

Charlotte blushes.

“Every beast is driven to pasture by blows.” Mr. Parker quotes, and Charlotte smiles.

“Heraclitus,” She nods, “Although...I did not entirely agree with his stance.”

“That strife is a necessity?” Mr. Parker enquires, his brow furrowed. Charlotte shakes her head.

“Not quite that - the accuracy of his philosophy on war I could not contradict.” She smiles at him sadly, quotes briefly, “Some he makes slaves, others free.” Mr. Parker tilts his head, acknowledging the reference, “It was only his complacency with strife’s outcome to which I could not be reconciled. To understand that struggle is necessary is one thing, to accept its result as forever unequal to one party or the other seems to me to be a failure of hope.”

Mr. Parker smiles. “Ever the idealist, Miss Heywood.”

Charlotte looks him square in the eye, unashamed of the accusation. “If we do not strive to be our best selves, Mr. Parker, how shall we ever achieve a better world?” Mr. Parker watches her for a moment, a half-smile on his lips.

“Quite so.” He says softly. Silence falls between them, and Charlotte revels in this moment of calm amongst the storm of their last few days. She does not understand quite how he can evoke comfort, as well as agitation, yet she finds herself utterly at peace. Like a ship on a suddenly still sea, his presence holds her up against the deep waters of the world as Charlotte is buoyed with a lightness of feeling she has rarely known. 

She does not understand the emotions he provokes, but for a moment she feels as though she understands  _ him,  _ and that is enough. 

“I spoke with Tom, before you arrived.” Charlotte admits into the hush. Mr. Parker’s limbs grow taut, as if he had forgotten the tension that existed between them up to this moment. “He spoke of the time, six years ago, when you went to Sanditon.”

Mr. Parker sighs heavily, rolls his eyes heavenwards. “No doubt he embellished it greatly.” He says with a resigned air, eyes still turned towards the ceiling in supplication. Charlotte’s heart sinks.

“Then un-embellish.” Charlotte suggest with a hint of impatience, “You promise explanations and at every turn you put me off. Well!” She gestures to their surroundings, “You have your genteel sitting room. If today were the day of the match, and Georgiana were safe with Mrs. Griffiths, what is it you would tell me?” Mr. Parker looks at her, leans forward and looks up under his brows as he is wont to do, before glancing down and smiling sheepishly. 

“First,” He looks down at his clothes, “I might have changed from my whites, but I should certainly have put on a better waistcoat.”

Charlotte rolls her eyes. “And it was  _ you _ who insisted you had no patience for pleasantries.” She chides him. He grins at her.

“Perhaps I have changed my mind.” He says.

“Or perhaps you are putting off the matter in hand.” Charlotte says astutely, and Mr. Parker whistles in a sharp breath, nods firmly. Schools his expression to one more solemn.

“I would have apologised.” He says with a slight rasp to his voice, “For everything I said to you.”

Charlotte sighs wearily. “Most of it was deserved, Mr. Parker.” She tells him. He shakes his head.

“It was not.” He says heavily, “Not in the least. And my own behaviour was unconscionable. Miss Heywood I raised my voice to you, in the street of all places.”

“I recall I raised my own in turn.” Charlotte says haughtily. 

“For god’s sake woman!” He exclaims in fond exasperation, “Will you not let me apologise!”

“Not unless you accept my apology in turn!” Charlotte counters, and he flings his hands up before resting them on his hips, conceding the point.

“Very well.” He says. Charlotte waits patiently, and he pauses before continuing. “Then,” He says slowly, “I would have told you what I tried to tell you in the carriage.”

“And what was that to have been?” Charlotte asks softly. He steps towards the small table, a hand moving to touch the book that rests there, inspecting it as though it were of the greatest fascination to him. 

“That I had not forgotten you. That I could not forget you.” He looks up at her, and Charlotte sees an echo of an old pain in his eyes. “Tom has mentioned Eliza, no doubt?” Charlotte nods, and Mr. Parker sighs wearily. “I loved her.” He admits, with an apologetic look to Charlotte, “As I should not have.” Charlotte shakes her head.

“Our hearts are our own, to give freely.” She says, even though the idea of him entrusting his affection to this woman who cared so little for it pains her greatly.

“Perhaps.” Mr. Parker nods, returns his gaze to the book. “She did not-” He smiles, though it is without humour, “I do not know if she returned my affection, in the end, but she did not choose it. I spent a long time hating her for that.”

Charlotte nods, but her throat is dry and she fears that she could not say anything, even if she had an idea of what words she might supply for comfort. 

“I spent a long time hating everyone and everything.” He continues, “No doubt Tom has told you of that also.” Charlotte watches him steadily as his eyes close in anguish. “That is the time,” He admits, “During which I became acquainted with Mr. Beacroft’s establishment.” Charlotte swallows dryly, unsure whether she will be able to listen with composure. He looks up, as if he senses her distress and wishes to gain her permission to continue his story. She nods, clearing her throat lightly.

“Pray continue, Mr. Parker.” She tells him, and meets his gaze. She will not look away. He returns her nod, and keeps his eyes on her. 

“Crowe’s idea, of course.” He says with a wry, dark smile. “I had no idea what I was doing, how to behave in such a place. I was there once, Miss Heywood, and I did not return.”

“Forgive me.” Charlotte clears her throat once more, “The woman seemed to know you rather well.”

“Of course she did.” He snorts, “Mine was the address to which she would send Crowe every time he incapacitated himself.” Charlotte wrinkles her nose, and Mr. Parker nods sharply. “I understand, Miss Heywood, that our friendship may seem strange. Crowe has his many faults, but I think you might be surprised to find he agrees with your stance on Heraclitus at least. I believe war made him a slave to himself, if to no man else.”

“I did not know he had served.” Charlotte murmurs, and Mr. Parker clears his throat.

“Few do.” He says, “And, forgive me, but I believe Crowe would rather it remained that way. It does not excuse his behaviour, I believe, but it does explain it.”

“I understand.” Charlotte tells him. She has seen men, returned from war. A few local men had joined the militia, and whilst they had left laughing, the few that returned carried a strange weight with them, one that seemed to move around a vacuum left by those who had not. 

“Enough of Crowe.” Mr. Parker shakes his head, “I will not excuse myself. I behaved in ways I cannot condone, I laid a great burden on my family that I have yet to fully repay. You say I do not do enough for Tom, and you are right. You were right on the night of the ball, when we spoke and I castigated you for speaking the clear truth. He is a foolish, brilliant man, but he is the kindest I have ever known.”

“I believe it.” Charlotte smiles, her eyes prickling with light tears, “I hope you know that I am fond of him, and in awe of his passion for Sanditon.”

“I know you meant no true censure of him,” Mr. Parker bows his head, “Certainly you were kinder to his faults than I have been, quite often to his very face.” He laughs shortly, “No more of my brother, either. I am managing to speak of everyone but myself, it seems.”

He looks up, an intensity of purpose in his expression, and when he speaks it is in almost a torrent of words, “The very truth, the most essential truth, is that when our carriage overturned that day six years ago, I would not have cared if I had died in it. For all the pain it might have caused my family, the thought of it would have given none to me. Then you, Miss Heywood.” He breaks off, does not seem to know where to look or how to hold himself, “I woke to see your smile, and I dwelt upon it for days. Days when I thought you were dying and all I could feel was an immense guilt that I had been the last person to see this young woman so vibrantly alive. The accident could not have been my fault, I know.” He raises a hand to forestall Charlotte’s aborted movement towards him, the beginnings of her protestation, “And yet my mood was so dark that everything seemed to me a disaster, one that moved with me, followed me wherever I went.”

Charlotte feels her eyes fill with tears, but Mr. Parker barely notices, so absorbed is he in his own thoughts. 

“The handkerchief I left with you,” He switches topics abruptly, and Charlotte reels, her mind racing to follow him, “In truth, at the time I thought nothing of it. It was just a rag of cloth in my pocket, I only realised later that it was not my usual plain handkerchief, but one I had carried with me for nearly three years.”

Like a red dawn breaking across a grey sky, the truth comes upon Charlotte like a shock of painful colour.

“Eliza.” She whispers, and Mr. Parker nods.

“Eliza.” He confirms. “She spent an afternoon, once, teaching me to sew. It was a silly fancy of hers, but I indulged it. I wrapped the ring with that handkerchief, ugly though it was, because I thought that it would make her laugh. She had already accepted another man.” His eyes flicker up to hers, “It was a broken promise, only, not an engagement, but I felt the betrayal keenly.”

Charlotte twitches her head in a nod, trying to conceal the tears welling in her eyes. Mr. Parker’s gaze traces her face gently, filled with compassion. 

“I will stop, Miss Heywood.” He tells her. 

“No.” She shakes her head, “Pray go on, I am well.” She dashes the tears from her eyes, and Mr. Parker sighs. 

“There is not much more. I noticed it gone the very day we spoke, and I spent the evening drinking away my loss, although in those days I was so accustomed to drink that it took a great deal of it to impair me, and the barman refused to serve me long before I reached that point. I believe I was wandering outside with no particular purpose when you emerged, and perhaps you remember even better than I do what transpired.”

“Fragments.” Charlotte smiles weakly, “It was many years ago. I remember more the sense of you than the words you spoke.” He smiles back, a slow solemn smile.

“Likewise.” He tells her, “Although it was hard to forget your passion for life, the joy you took in all its promise. You transfixed me, quite.”

Charlotte blushes, “You attach too much meaning to the ramblings of a young girl.” She shakes her head, “I was half delirious from being kept indoors, I am sure my fancy would not have held up to the light of day.”

“You gave me an idea for escape.” Mr Parker says, his eyes growing distant once more, “And there was a kind of hope to be found in such an escape. I returned to London that very night, found passage to the first distant country of which I heard mention. I returned to Sanditon once my affairs were in order.” He closes his eyes, as if remembering an old frustration. “I had not taken even your name. I believed that you lived in Sanditon, though why I cannot imagine. You seemed at home there, and I myself was staying at the only inn and had never seen you come or go from any of the guest rooms.”

“Mr Henshaw gave me his own room,” Charlotte tells him, her heart wrenching at the revelation of his mistake. “It was downstairs, behind the taproom.”

Mr. Parker barks a cynical laugh. “Of course! There you were, as close to me as it was possible for you to be, and yet I never thought to look for you. A common error of mine, it would appear. To have you always so close, and never to realise it until I am too late.”

“Are you too late now?” Charlotte asks boldly, and all of a sudden they have arrived at the crux of their conversation. A new tension enters the room, and his dark eyes flick slowly to hers. 

“You must be the one to tell me that, Miss Heywood,” He says, voice low. The silence of the room presses in around them, and Charlotte can hear the gentle whir and click of the small clock on the mantelpiece, the faint clamour of the street outside. 

Gathering her courage, Charlotte moves towards him slowly. He straightens as she approaches, looking down at her with an impenetrable gaze as she stops in front of him. 

“Mr. Parker.” She says, reaches a hesitant hand to his jaw, “Sidney.” He moves willingly, bringing his forehead down to rest against hers in a mirror of the embrace they shared not twenty-four hours before. His brow crinkles slightly, an unsteady breath rushing from his lips.

“Not too late, I think.” She whispers, as the small clock on the mantelpiece chimes sweetly on the hour. "We have made it to your sitting room after all." Charlotte murmurs with a quiet laugh, “Though you shall have to count on Tom alone as a restraining influence.” Sidney groans.

"Tell me to be restrained." He tells her, voice low and harsh. "Tell me to be a gentleman, Charlotte, and I will be so."

"I do not want such power of you." She admits quietly, drawing her head away from his to look into his eyes. "I would rather you own yourself, and that we meet as equals."

"Because you think I would own you in return?" Sidney entreats, eyes dark and serious, "I would never demand your submission, never ask for possession of your will, you must know that."

"Of course not." Charlotte smiles quietly, "as if you could take it, even if you wanted too." She teases.

He huffs a quiet laugh against her cheek, teeth flashing.

"But Sidney," Charlotte says, firm and quiet, "You have as much right as I to your freedom."

He looks at her a moment, a long, measured gaze.

"I am never more free," He says at last, "Never more in possession of myself, never more my  _ true _ self, than when I am with you." His words hang in the air, and Charlotte can barely breathe for the quiet beauty of his confession.

"Then I accept." She says simply. 

"Accept?" Sidney reaches blindly for her hands, clasps them in his own, desperate and searching, "What do you accept Charlotte?"

"Whatever you ask of me." She tells him, smiling calmly into his face, "Whenever you ask it of me."

"I will." He says fiercely, pressing his forehead to hers once more, "I  _ will  _ ask you. When we are in Sanditon."

"In Sanditon." Charlotte agrees, and they breathe the quiet air together. 


	10. Friendship is certainly the finest balm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I have returned, and at a reasonable hour! I'm sorry for the wait, and I'm still a very busy bee, so updates will probably still be somewhat irregular until I have some time to myself again! One of these days I will actually manage to get Charlotte and Sidney to the ball, but I've still only got my learner's license in fairy godmother-ing, so fair warning they don't make it in this chapter. I'm working on the pumpkin as we speak, but the mice are being recalcitrant.  
> In the meantime, on with the chapter!

Georgiana finds them. Perhaps they lingered too long, but the house was so quiet and their accord so long sought for that to urge to bask in their happiness a little longer was difficult to resist.

It could have been minutes or hours, Charlotte would have no means of guessing. They had gravitated to an embrace, one of Sidney's arms around her back, palm pressed to her spine, the other wrapped around her waist. Charlotte felt that she would have been quite content to stand there, her ear pressed against his gradually slowing heartbeat and her head tucked under his chin, for centuries. Her body might have melted to dust, and she would still assert with confidence a perfect remembrance of the sensation of being so absorbed by another human being, by this man. 

They do not speak, not for long minutes. There is still much to say, but they have time to say it.

It is Sidney, facing the doorway, who first looks up at the slight creak of a floorboard.

Charlotte turns her head, following his gaze to see Georgiana in the doorway, a pained expression on her face.

“What is this?” She demands, though Charlotte thinks it is in surprise rather than anger. Charlotte opens her mouth to speak, and then realises she has no idea how to explain. 

Sidney draws back from the embrace slightly, though his hand still lingers on her waist even as he moves to stand beside her.

“Georgiana,” He clears his throat softly, “Forgive me, I meant to check on you.”

"I do not require your concern!" Georgiana retorts, "Charlotte?" She turns to her friend, "What is going on?"

"I-" Charlotte begins, then turns sharply to Sidney, "Mr. Parker would you give us a moment?" 

Sidney rolls his eyes heavenwards. "Mr. Parker once more." He laments, and Charlotte elbows him lightly. 

"It is proper." She tells him archly, "Now begone with you!"

"Miss Heywood." He says with a light bow, drawing out the syllables, "Georgiana." He nods and strides from the room, leaving Charlotte with a fond smile on her face.

Georgiana looks at her with a confounded expression.

"What in God's name has happened!" She asks, moving into the room, her arms hugged protectively around her waist. She seems smaller than she had in Sanditon, a shrunken, quieter version of herself. Her eyes are slightly red with weeping, and Charlotte feels terrible for confronting her with anything that might remind of her lost relationship with Otis. 

"Georgiana," Charlotte begins, "I am sorry, this must seem so sudden."

"I thought you hated Sidney." Georgiana accuses, "I thought we were in agreement!"

"I was angry with him," Charlotte qualifies, "I am...I am not angry anymore."

"So our friendship means nothing in the face of a man's supposed regard for you?" Georgiana accuses. “He will break your heart!”

"Georgiana!" Charlotte exclaims, brow furrowed. "That is not fair." She says gently.

"Is it not?" Georgiana retorts, "We were friends before your opinions about Sidney altered all of a sudden. Your heart may tell you to have faith in him, but I would be the first to tell you that hearts may be mistaken." She blinks on sudden tears, turning her back on Charlotte.

“Not the first.” Charlotte smiles sadly, “You sound just like Sidney, you know.”

Georgiana scoffs, staring out of the window blankly.

"I hope we still can be friends." Charlotte pleads, "And you are right, in part. My opinion of Mr. Parker has altered. But in truth it has hardly been as sudden as it might seem. My opinions, my feelings - they have been years in the making."

"What?" Georgiana looks puzzled, "Charlotte what do you mean? You have known Sidney barely a month."

"I have not been honest with you." Charlotte admits, "at least not about my acquaintance with Mr. Parker."

Charlotte almost expects Georgiana to be angry, but her friend just looks tired instead. 

"First Otis." She says distantly, "Now you. I am a poor judge of character indeed. Is there anyone!” She exclaims helplessly, “Anyone at all who is not keeping things from me, who does not wish to lie to me _for my own good!”_ She bites out the final words, casting a look of betrayal at her friend. 

For a moment, Charlotte wants to buckle. It is so unfair to Georgiana, that all of those around her have been keeping secrets. Charlotte shakes her head firmly instead of giving in to her worry. Only a full explanation will repair their relationship, this she has learnt from her own experience with Sidney. 

"It is not like that." Charlotte tells her, "I did not keep it from you on account of any lack of trust, or to protect you, or even out of any wish for secrecy -at least, none that was to do with keeping it a secret from you. It is simply that my previous encounter with Mr. Parker seemed so impossible, so foolish, that I did not wish to lose your friendship by confiding of something that seemed so absurd. You do not have to forgive me, but for what it is worth, I am truly sorry to have kept it from you."

Georgiana looks up, her attention caught, and Charlotte can tell she is willing to listen. 

"Previous encounter?" She asks, and Charlotte takes a deep breath.

She tells Georgiana of the accident, of her delirium, of her injury. Georgiana's eyes grow wide at the tale, but narrow with the mention of her encounter with Sidney.

"I would not have been so taken in." She says dismissively, and Charlotte rolls her eyes.

"Oh pray, Georgiana, do not pretend that if _you_ had not been rescued by a handsome stranger, you would not have been a little curious to discover more about him!"

Georgiana's expression cracks slightly, and a small snort of laughter escapes her. 

"Sidney," She says, though it is with a small, teasing smile that brings a welcome lightness to her drawn face, "Handsome?"

"Oh hush." Charlotte tells her, blushing. Georgiana rolls her eyes heavenwards.

"I will admit," she says, she shakes her head, shaking with it some of the tension from her limbs. "This is not what I expected."

As though suddenly decided in something, Georgiana strides across the room to grasp Charlotte's hand and tugs on it. "Come upstairs," She tells her, "This is the sort of conversation which requires my full attention. I demand you let me sit in my bed and we can put on our shawls and whisper together like proper confidants."

The young women smile at each other, and as they hurry across the landing, Tom's voice arrests them.

"Miss Heywood, Miss Lambe!" They stop to lean over the banister, seeing Tom and Sidney standing below. Charlotte and Sidney smile at one another, and whilst Charlotte blushes and looks away, Sidney's mouth simply quirks further into the corner of his lips as he looks to the floor.

"Oh you are both _insufferable_." Georgiana mutters, and Charlotte snorts giddily.

"The ball," Tom continues, utterly unaware, "Begins at nine. We have nearly four hours to prepare! It is not nearly enough time. You are both coming, of course?"

Georgiana's smile dies, and Charlotte clasps her hand comfortingly. 

"Thank you, Mr. Parker." Charlotte tells him, shaking her head gently, "We would rather rest after our night of travel."

Tom looks disappointed, but with a hand on his shoulder and a gentle murmur, Sidney leads him away. Charlotte watches them go, caught between frowning for Georgiana and smiling at Sidney.

"Charlotte." Georgiana says in a small voice, and Charlotte gives over all her attention to her friend.

Quietly now, they go upstairs. Charlotte hovers awkwardly as Georgiana clambers on top of the bedcovers, wrapping herself in a shawl.

"Are you sure you wish to talk, Georgiana?" Charlotte asks in a hushed voice, "I do not want to upset you."

Georgiana burrows her nose in the rich fabric of her shawl, but her voice when it comes is that of the old Georgiana.

"Charlotte," she says, "if you do not climb on this bed right now and distract me thoroughly with the ridiculous tale of your romance with my guardian, then we cannot possibly be friends anymore."

Charlotte smiles, and jumps on the bed with enthusiasm, making Georgiana shriek slightly. Heavy footsteps rush up the stairs, and both women pause to listen to the clamour. All is explained when Sidney's voice comes through the door. 

"Miss Heywood?" He calls, and she is touched by the concern in his voice, "Miss Lambe, are you well?"

"Oh for heaven's sake Sidney!" Georgiana calls through the door, "We are allowed to laugh without it being a conspiracy to harm your _Miss Heywood._ You will have her back soon, now leave us be!"

"Georgiana!" Charlotte gasps, swatting her friend's shoulder, and Georgiana cackles.

There is a pause from outside, and an awkward, "Very well." from Sidney.

"But thank you!" Charlotte calls as she hears him turn to go, and his steps pause for a second before continuing more lightly down the stairs.

"Insufferable." Georgiana mutters again, then clasps her knees and turns her head to Charlotte, "Now," she says, "You must tell me _everything."_

Georgiana is in stitches. Her shawl has long since fallen to the bedclothes, allowing Charlotte to steal it and tuck it about her knees as her friend rolls around in laughter.

“No, truly!” Georgiana wheezes, “You kissed _him_?”

“I did.” Charlotte says primly, fiddling with a tassel.

“You _kissed_ him!” Georgiana says with delight, before collapsing once more into a pile of giggles. Charlotte rolls her eyes good-naturedly. 

“I would,” Georgiana gasps, “Have given a great deal to have seen his face.”

“I’m not really sure I would have wanted you to.” Charlotte blushes fiercely, recalling the long embrace that had followed her impulsive action.

“Wait,” Georgiana sits up, gasping for breath but serious again, “What happened? Was he angry? You did not speak in the coach this morning, I assumed you still hated each other.”

“Ah,” Charlotte says, “No, this morning I’m afraid it was _I_ who was angry with him. I had...misunderstood something and I did not give Mr. Parker a chance to rectify the situation until this afternoon.” Georgiana looks at her, mouth hanging open slightly. 

“Sidney.” She says slowly, “Spent all day looking miserable because _you_ refused to speak to him.”

“I did not mean to upset him so!” Charlotte protests, “I was very sorry for it! Only _I_ was upset and I did not realise how much it might upset Mr. Parker, for truly I had not thought that he might care for me as I cared for him-” Charlotte finishes with a muffled exclamation as Georgiana presses her hand against Charlotte’s mouth. 

“That was not what I meant.” She tells Charlotte, “I would be the first to understand being angry with my guardian, I am only surprised at how he _allowed_ it.”

“I-” Charlotte looks at her curiously, “I had not thought he could do anything but allow it.”

Georgiana looks at her for a moment, eyebrows raised. Then she lifts her eyes to the invisible heavens.

“Charlotte Heywood,” She murmurs, “The only woman with the power to confound the great and irritable Sidney Parker, and she does not even realise it.”

Charlotte does not really know what to say. A light flush comes to her cheek at the idea, but she has hardly stopped blushing since this conversation began, so Georgiana takes little notice.

“Wait!” Georgiana exclaims again, “The kiss! What happened?” She flaps her hands in agitation and Charlotte stills them.

“Will you be _quiet_.” She says, although Georgiana’s excitement makes her laugh as her friend squirms. “If you must know,” She continues, “He kissed me back.”

“No!” Georgiana exclaims, “You mean to say that after everything he said to us about propriety he let you kiss him in a dark street in London!”

“I’m not really sure he ever said much to me about propriety before that point.” Charlotte frowns, trying to remember. 

“Irrelevant,” Georgiana waves her hands again as they slip from Charlotte’s loosened hold, “Keep going, I need to hear everything.”

Charlotte continues, skating lightly over parts which she deems either too deeply private for her to share, or which might remind Georgiana too vividly of her time spent with her abductors. Eventually, she reaches Tom’s part in the tale.

“He spent a great deal of time telling me about a ship in a bottle that Sidney had bought,” She frowns, “But in truth I do not see how that was relevant. Mr. Parker has never mentioned any such object to me, and yet Tom seemed to connect it to our encounter in Sanditon.”

“Oh” Georgiana’s hands are pressed against her mouth in horror. 

“What?” Charlotte looks at her, puzzled. Her friend’s eyes fill with tears, and Charlotte puts her hands on Georgiana’s shoulders in concern. 

“What is it Georgiana? What is wrong?” Her friend looks at her, expression utterly miserable. 

“I broke it.” She whispers. 

“What?” Charlotte does not understand. Georgiana’s hands drop to the coverlet, and she twists the fabric with her fingers as she looks at Charlotte with an expression of shame. 

“It was after Otis- after the first time with Otis.” She explains, voice trembling, “I was so very angry with him. I wanted to hurt him.”

“That is understandable.” Charlotte says comfortingly, but Georgiana shakes her head sharply.

“He was so upset.” She whispers, “I’ve never seen him so upset.”

“Upset that you broke it?” Charlotte tries to work it out, and Georgiana closes her eyes. 

“I never told him.” She says, climbing off the bed and walking to her chest of drawers. Charlotte looks on in confusion as Georgiana heaves open the bottom drawer, fumbling around at the back until she emerges with a cloth bag which clinks gently as she carries it to the bed. Carefully, Georgiana removes the contents. The remnants of a broken bottle emerge, and amongst them, the painted splinters of a ship broken into three large parts, with smaller fragments still mingled with the glass. 

“He took it everywhere with him.” Georgiana says miserably as Charlotte picks delicately through the broken pieces, “He had it with him when he stayed with my father, he kept it on the shelf in his room. I noticed, because he never seemed to carry anything else with him apart from his clothes.” Charlotte nods absently. She has never seen Mr. Parker with many personal effects. “Father died, and he brought me here.” Georgiana continues, “He kept it in his room, but I knew it was there because every so often he would ask one of the servants to clean it. So when-” Georgiana’s voice breaks, but she clears her throat and carries on, “When he broke it off, between Otis and me, and I was so angry with him I-...I broke into his room, and I took it. And I smashed it with my shoe.”

“Oh, Georgiana.” Charlotte looks at her friend with sorrow, and Georgiana’s face crumples.

“I should not have!” She sobs, “But I wanted to hurt him, as he had hurt me.”

“But how did he not find out?” Charlotte asks, “That it was gone?”

“He did,” Georgiana says quietly, “He came back that evening, and I think he must have noticed almost instantly. I heard him ask John, our footman, if someone had moved it, or taken it to clean it, but John said he didn’t know.”

Georgiana looks Charlotte in the face, somewhat defiantly, “I was going to tell him,” She asserts, “I wanted him to know that I had done it, only-” Her voice cracks a little again, and her eyes fall to the fragments, “I saw his face after they had searched the house, and even though I had done it to hurt him, I did not imagine it would work so well.”

Charlotte swallows. She cannot imagine seeing Sidney so distressed, and her heart fractures slightly under the weight of even contemplating it.

“I do not-” Charlotte begins, hesitant, “Georgiana, I know that Tom attaches its importance to Sanditon and...and me. But!” She rushes on, “It is very possible Sidney was just upset about such an expensive item being lost.” She smiles reassuringly, “It is of no matter. Although I believe he might wish to know what happened to it.” She looks at the fragments dubiously. 

But Georgiana only shakes her head again, sniffing as she wipes her cheek and dries her hand on her dress before rummaging in the bottom of her cloth bag. She produces a slip of paper, places it quietly it Charlotte’s hands. 

“It was in the neck of the bottle.” She tells Charlotte, wringing her hands gently.

Charlotte looks down, recognising the hand that is scrawled elegantly along the thin scroll. 

_A ship for the Lady who would take to the waves. May your adventures on the sea prove less perilous than they have on land._

_S.P._

“Oh.” Charlotte chokes, and her own eyes prickle with tears as she presses the note to her chest, emotion overwhelming her at this irrevocable proof that she was remembered. That she was treasured by him as he had been treasured by her, perhaps even more so. “Thank you.” She says to Georgiana earnestly, and her friend looks even more distressed.

“Do not thank me!” She cries, “I was reprehensible! I thought him without feeling and I broke something precious to both of you.”

“It does not matter,” Charlotte shakes her head, then qualifies, “It does not matter to _me._ I am sure it hurt Sidney greatly, but I am certain that he will heal.” She smiles, “We will all heal Georgiana.”

Georgiana looks at her for a moment, eyes wide and lips trembling, before she bursts into loud sobs and flings herself into Charlotte’s arms. 

“I do not deserve you.” She mutters fiercely once her sobs quieten, “You are the best of friends.”

“As you are to me.” Charlotte says, and she brooks no refusal despite Georgiana’s protests. 

After a few moments in silence, Georgiana pulls back from Charlotte’s embrace with a hearty sniff and stands again, going this time to the chest at the end of her bed. 

“What are you doing?” Charlotte asks curiously, and Georgiana holds up a hand as she rummages, drawing back after a long moment with armfuls of gold silk.

“I did not understand, before,” Georgiana says with a determined air, “But I think I do now.” She lets the fabric drop, and Charlotte gasps as a beautiful gown is revealed from the folds. 

“You should go to the ball.” Georgiana smiles, “But do not go for Sanditon. Go for Sidney. Go for you.”

“Oh Georgiana.” Charlotte cries, and she leaps of the bed to embrace her friend. 

“Oh stop it,” Georgiana sniffs, as she tries to protect the dress from her friend’s affection, “You’ll crush it, and then he’ll never dance with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are *all* Georgiana in this chapter. Well, sort of. (ngl I'm sure I have smashed up someone's treasured possession at some point, but I might have still been a toddler at the time) The truth is I have a lot of love for this character, and I wanted to give her a bit more time than she gets on the show after the whole abduction narrative is done. Where was the in-depth feelings talk? All we got was a 'don't say I didn't tell you so, he'll break your heart it's your own fault etc.' And like! Female friendship! Affection! Where was it?! I feel as though Georgiana is just as important a relationship for Charlotte as Sidney in lots of ways, and even though this is a romance (more Sidney next time I swear) I think these women deserve some time and appreciation. Hope you all agree!


	11. We dance like we die (with our souls as swords)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You SHALL go to the ball! *twirls fairy godmother license* Awww yiss! *promptly drops wand* Oh sh-  
> Ahem, never mind.  
> I got them there! Finally! And, well - the more things change, the more they stay the same, the more they...change? (idek it's a bizarre sort of AU, I'm just glad you're all along for the ride.)  
> I am getting back to all your comments I swear! I'm just a bit strapped for time and I know you'd all rather I be writing rather than waffling at you in the comments (or um, here) but! They make my day and I love replying to you all so please know that every comment and kudos is appreciated. They make me laugh and tear up and feel all warm and fuzzy inside. You're all great.  
> *scrabbles for the wand again*  
> Your carriage awaits!

"There." Georgiana puts a final twist in Charlotte's hair, pursing her lips as she pushes the last pin in carefully.

"Thank you." Charlotte tells her, "I would have done it myself but-" Georgiana rolls her eyes.

"Charlotte, your talents do not lie in dressing hair, it is flaw you may never overcome. You must just learn to bear it."

Charlotte grins, "Oh I shall," she says, "With great equanimity. Particularly if you keep doing my hair for me because of it."

"Next time ask the maid whose job it is!" Georgiana wags a finger in her face, and Charlotte scoffs.

"You were the one who told Joanna she could go and rest, you _insisted_ on doing my hair."

"I shall never admit to it." Georgiana smirks, smoothing down a few stray strands. Charlotte looks at her reflection in the small glass, and takes a deep breath.

"Charlotte," Georgiana's voice as it breaks her reverie is hesitant, "You do know about Eliza Campion?" Charlotte turns in her chair.

"As in Sidney's Eliza?" Charlotte clarifies.

"Hardly Sidney's." Georgiana huffs, "But yes."

"I did not know her last name." Charlotte murmurs, then asks, "is Campion her married name?"

Georgiana nods, "Only," she begins, "I heard just before I came down to Sanditon that she had been widowed."

"Oh." Charlotte blinks. She is not sure how to feel. "I am...sorry?" She attempts.

Georgiana sighs in exasperation, "You sound sorry for _her_. Don't be sorry, she's fabulously wealthy and free of her ancient spouse."

"But surely," Charlotte protests, "It must still have been awful. To lose someone she is close to, even if she did not love him as I love-" Charlotte halts in shock, her hands springing up to her mouth.

"Dear Lord." Georgiana intones, "Preserve me from this fate." She removes Charlotte's hands gently.

"You are allowed to love him." Georgiana tells her, though it seems she cannot help but sound vaguely disgusted at the very idea.

"But I am not even sure I know what love _is_!" Charlotte declares, somewhat distraught, "I did not love Mr. Parker when I met him six years ago, I did not have the time! How do I know if I love him now?"

Georgiana opens her mouth to respond, but there is a rap at the door and Sidney's voice filters through.

"Miss Heywood." He calls, "The carriage is outside. Tom and I shall be waiting downstairs."

"One moment!" Charlotte calls, bustling in to action. Just as she turns to leave, Georgiana pulls on her gloved hand.

"Just-" She pauses for a moment, continues in a low voice, "What I meant to say about Mrs Campion, Charlotte - she will most likely be there tonight."

"I had not even thought-" Charlotte stammers, but Georgiana cuts her off fiercely.

"Do not bend or she will break you." She whispers, "She might care nothing for Sidney, or she might seek him out for her second chance. Whichever way, she will not like _you._ I've met her. She's pretty, and elegant, and she's made poor choices that have made her vicious."

Charlotte opens her mouth, but Georgiana quells her.

"Do not _pity_ her Charlotte. Do not hate her, if you cannot bring yourself to, but for God's sake don't let her make you hate yourself."

Charlotte nods firmly, a sudden nervous trembling in her limbs. Georgiana squeezes her hand, gives her one last bright, teasing smile.

"You look beautiful." She tells her, then whispers in her ear as she pushes her into the corridor, "Don't let Sidney take you near any dark alleyways again."

Charlotte is delivered to the hall with a fierce blush staining her cheeks, Georgiana's laughter still ringing in her ears.

Sidney keeps looking at her. The carriage ride to Mrs. Maudesley’s ball is far too long for Charlotte’s taste, and even though Tom’s chatter fills the small enclosure ably with a congenial air, she feels on edge and awkward. The pins in her hair pull on her scalp and she hardly dares to move for fear of creasing Georgiana’s dress. 

“It becomes you.” Sidney says quietly from across the carriage, as he notices her fidgeting. She smiles weakly at him, her heart racing a little faster as their eyes catch. 

“What was that Sidney? It will come good?” Tom turns to look at his brother, before broadcasting to the rest of the carriage, “That’s the kind of optimism I like to hear! Although, my dear companions, we have a great deal of work to do. Does anybody need any more of my cards?”

“It is a ball Tom,” Sidney rolls his eyes, “People will be holding glasses, not slips of paper.”

“They will have pockets!” Tom exclaims, “Picture this - the morning after the ball, your head aches deliciously from all the fine wine. What a good night! You think to yourself, who was that fine chap I met last night? Why, I believe he left his card with me - and look! I have it here. Sanditon! A regatta! Marvellous.” Tom grins happily, and Charlotte smiles at him. 

“It is a fine thought, Mr. Parker.” She tells him, and Sidney smiles quietly at her from across the carriage. Some of Charlotte’s uneasiness dissipates, and she breathes in deeply. 

_For Sidney_ , Georgiana had said, _For you._

Charlotte is determined to enjoy the ball. 

Charlotte hates the ball. People are talking and laughing everywhere, but so raucously she can scarcely hear herself think. Sidney had stopped with her at the threshold, the polite arm he had offered her a solid warmth against the tipsy uncertainty of the gathering. Charlotte had hoped they might speak, but Tom had dragged Sidney away. 

“I will find you,” He says over his shoulder, as Tom reassures him blithely that “Miss Heywood can ably fend for herself, dear Sidney.”

Charlotte is left alone with Lord Babington and Crowe. The latter gentleman forges away immediately towards a three-tiered fountain brimming with punch, but Lord Babington lingers. 

“Shall we tour the room together, Miss Heywood?” He asks her, and she nods gratefully. 

“I would appreciate it.” She tells him, and he smiles and gestures to one side. 

They talk of Sanditon to anyone who will listen for what seems like hours, until Charlotte’s leg aches and wobbles as she tries to enthuse her small group of Londoners about the delights of sea air. 

“A provincial heiress, are you?” One enquires, and Charlotte sighs and excuses herself. She meets Lord Babington a few paces away, ejected from his own company. 

“I think they thought I was drunk.” He says morosely. Charlotte laughs gently, and he smiles briefly at her. As it drops away, Charlotte realises that it is not only their lack of success regarding Sanditon that seems to weigh upon him.

“Forgive me, Lord Babington.” She says, “You do not appear to be yourself.”

“Don’t I?” He shakes his head, “I have had some trouble sleeping of late, that is all.”

“That is a state to which I can relate well.” Charlotte smiles, thinking of the long night and early morning she spent jolting around in the coach. Her jaw tightens with a yawn, but she conceals it behind her mask. 

“You are also experiencing troubles of the heart?” Lord Babington looks rather animated at the idea, and Charlotte blinks in surprise.

“Well, no.” She says, then frowns, “Perhaps.”

“Exactly.” He nods, “Perhaps.” Then he sighs. “Miss Heywood, you are a woman.”

Charlotte can hardly dispute the fact.

“Do you know-” He looks deeply preoccupied, and the notion dawns on Charlotte that he might be about to speak of his evident regard for Esther Denham, “Is it possible for a woman’s affections towards a man to change completely within the space of twenty-four hours?”

Charlotte blinks again, her eyes automatically searching for Sidney. The crush of people is too vast, and she can glimpse him nowhere. She frowns in thought. 

“I believe so.” She says slowly, “Particularly if - that is to say, I have noticed my own feelings change more swiftly the stronger they are.”

“The stronger?” Lord Babington looks desperately hopeful. Charlotte nods, although she does not really know how a deconstruction of her own situation will help. She is so frustrated, however, than a chance to vent her emotional turmoil - however obliquely - is an opportunity she seizes upon. 

“I have never been so confounded by my own emotions.” She admits, “I find I swing from anger, to disgust, to fear and to-...to regard more rapidly than I can truly register.”

Lord Babington looks alarmed. 

“And...does the man do anything to provoke such responses? Or is it simply in the privacy of your own mind that these...fluctuations occur?” 

Charlotte looks at him sharply, “Of course he does something to provoke them! I do not simply change my mind on a whim. And I would like it very much if people stopped referring to my temper as fluctuating!” She declares in exasperation, and Lord Babington raises his hands in a calming fashion.

“I meant nothing by it!” He exclaims, though Charlotte is sure she hears him mutter, “I take your point, however.” His face falls into a frown once more. 

“I did not speak with her in the intervening day,” He admits, “So unless I somehow offended her in my sleep I do not know what I did to cause such an alteration in her regard for me.”

Charlotte sighs. “Is this - Lord Babington, do you speak of Esther Denham?”

He nods, morose once more. “I do.” He says briefly. 

Charlotte rests her hand on his forearm lightly. “Perhaps she will come around.” She suggests and he smiles gently at her, before seeming to repress his own thoughts.

“And your Mr. Stringer?” He asks Charlotte, confounding her utterly, “Is he in your good graces once more?”

“Mr. Stringer!” She exclaims, but her protestation is lost as a few inebriated guests brush past them. Lord Babington steadies Charlotte with a hand to her elbow as she is knocked off balance, and he looks over her shoulder, distracted.

“I say!” He declares, “I believe that is Mrs. Campion! I wonder where Sidney has gone to-”

Charlotte’s heart leaps into her mouth. She has no desire to meet with - or even behold - the famous Mrs. Campion.

“Excuse me,” She tells Lord Babington, “I require some air.” She leaves him before he has a chance to offer to accompany her, and in truth Charlotte much prefers it that way. 

“Mr. Stringer!” She exclaims to herself again, and nearly laughs until she remembers the reason for her escape.

So it is that Charlotte arrives at the small anteroom, panting and overwrought. She goes to the window, barely glancing at the rest of the room as she inhales the comparatively fresh night air and sighs deeply.

“My thoughts exactly.” Says a warm voice behind her, and Charlotte spins around to behold an elegant, quietly beautiful woman smiling at her with amusement. 

Charlotte is so flustered she can barely track their conversation, a brief narrative of her arrival in London falling from her lips, and as she drops herself onto the divan with a “Charlotte Heywood.” The woman smiles at her gently.

“Forgive me for asking, Charlotte.” The woman says, slipping her book closed, “You seem somewhat...befuddled.”

“Do I?” Charlotte asks, and the woman nods with a kind smile. Charlotte sighs. “There is a certain gentleman,” She begins, “A Mr. Sidney Parker - Mr. Tom Parker’s brother - and he-...he inspires an anger in me I did not know I possessed, and yet I find that his good opinion means more to me than anybody else’s. How can that be?”

Barely hesitating, Mrs...Susan leans forward with a conspiratorial smile. “It sounds to me as though you are in love with him.”

“Exactly!” Charlotte exclaims, turning forcefully towards her. “But _why?”_

Susan blinks in shock. “Well my dear,” She begins, “We cannot determine _why_ we fall in love, only that we do.”

“But how do we know?” Charlotte says desperately, “You can think of someone for years and years until they are nothing but a memory but it is not love! And they you may meet them again, but that is not love either, it is simply meeting! And you may kiss them but what does that prove? How do you _know?_ ”

Susan looks at her, amused. Charlotte blushes at all she has just revealed, but the woman shakes her head.

“Do not be embarrassed,” She says warmly, “I remember what it was to be so confounded by your own heart. Only tell me this.” She leans forward, smiles gently. “When you are with him, are you happy?”

Charlotte looks at her, lost.

“I am...I am everything. All at once, most of the time.” She does not know how better to say it. 

Susan only nods, “And happy?” She presses, “Are you happy, in the midst of everything.”

Charlotte thinks of Sanditon at midnight, a young man twirling a bow. She thinks of dancing with a familiar stranger, of sparring with words on a blustery clifftop, of kissing in a dark alley and embracing on a quiet afternoon.

“...Yes.” She says softly, and Susan’s hand reaches across to squeeze hers. 

“Let me tell you a secret.” She smiles, “That is life - and love - at it’s very, very best.” 

Charlotte looks at her for a moment, a small smile trembling on her lips. Susan’s smile grows warmer, and Charlotte thinks for a moment that she sees a light sheen of tears in her eyes.

There is a footfall behind the curtain, and Charlotte looks around to see Sidney emerge from the shadowed corridor. 

“Ah, there you are.” His voice is deep and relieved, and Charlotte feels her heart lift at the sight of him.

“Oh.” She gasps to herself, eyes flickering to Susan as the woman smiles at her knowingly, blinking once as the light sheen vanishes as though Charlotte had imagined it. 

“Mr. Sidney Parker I presume.” Susan announces gaily, “We were just speaking of you.”

“Ah.” Sidney looks slightly confounded, but his focus on Charlotte is not to be deterred. “I was wondering if Miss Heywood would like to dance, if I’m not interrupting, that is?”

“Not in the least!” Susan says with a smile full of repressed glee. 

“Excuse us.” Sidney bows swiftly, taking Charlotte by the hand. She looks back at Susan as she leaves, mouthing her thanks as the woman raises her eyebrows and then drops them into a reassuring smile. 

“You did not have to ask me,” Charlotte tells Sidney as he leads her to the ballroom, “Out of politeness, or obligation.”

“Charlotte.” Sidney says quietly, and she pokes him. He sighs. “Miss Heywood.” He corrects, “If you believe there is any chance that I would let you leave this ball without requesting at least one dance with you, then I have not been clear enough in my attentions.”

“But I am so out of place here.” Charlotte hisses, ignoring the leap in her heart at his words, “I do not belong.”

“Nor do I.” He smiles at her, “We shall not belong, together.” He quirks his lips, and Charlotte finds herself caught in his gaze. They linger for a moment, on the edge of the dance floor. 

“I would like that.” Charlotte says quietly, and he smiles and clasps her hand as the music swells. 

He is close, as they dance. Closer than he has ever been, in public at least. The tempo is slow, a waltz, and Charlotte feels the drugging weight of the luxurious beat as though it were playing on her senses like a physician’s tonic. Her heart skips and falls with every brushing embrace, and it feels almost indecent to be so absorbed in another person whilst under the gaze of so many others. 

Sidney’s eyes are dark and his movements measured, but as the beat picks up Charlotte stumbles a little as she had the first time they danced, when her leg buckled on a turn. This time, however, Sidney almost anticipates it. Catching her effortlessly, he turns her stumble into a spin, and as the pace increases an exhilarated grin spreads across his face. 

“Do you care to keep up, Miss Heywood?” He teases with an arrogant grin, and Charlotte throws back her head with a laugh.

And then it is war. 

They fence with their steps, never breaking from the pattern of the dance as they whirl and spin as though in graceful combat. Charlotte can feel him, waiting to catch her at every misstep, but she is in possession of herself now, countering his concern with her corrected balance, parrying his extended arm with a victorious smile as they meet, and part, and meet again. 

As they halt, breathless, the dancers around them spin in place, but Charlotte stands still. Sidney’s face is serious as he stoops slightly, his lips a breath away from hers. The final chord plays, and Charlotte steps back with a sharp inhalation, sinking into a light curtsy as Sidney bows. 

“Well battled, Admiral Heywood.” He murmurs, teeth flashing in a smile. Charlotte returns it, chest heaving to recover her breath. 

“We shall call it a draw, Admiral Parker.” She laughs, giddy, and Sidney laughs with her. 

“Sidney?” Tom appears, “Well, well, what has caused this merriment?”

“Nothing important.” Charlotte shakes her head, still laughing, and she shares a knowing grin with Sidney. As she looks at him, however, his eyes are drawn to the back of the room, and Charlotte turns to follow his gaze to a woman in a red dress. 

“It is Eliza.” He murmurs, and Charlotte’s heart races in her chest once more, though for far less pleasant reasons. Eliza Campion is tall and elegant, her hair coiffed and her smile precise. She raises her mask at Sidney in a salute, and as Charlotte follows her gaze back to the man at her side she sees that Sidney seems half-frozen. 

“A dance, Miss Heywood?” Tom asks brightly, as Charlotte touches Sidney’s arm lightly.

“You should go to her.” Charlotte tells him in a low voice, and Sidney seems to break from his trance, dark eyes meeting hers once more. 

“I do not-” He glances back at Tom, who is smiling at them in a convivial manner. Sidney looks at Charlotte with a slightly desperate air. “Come with me.” He entreats, and Charlotte looks at him, surprised. 

“You wish me to accompany you?” She asks, “Would you not rather speak to her alone?”

“I cannot slight her.” He looks deeply uncomfortable, “But I admit I would rather you were there.”

Charlotte’s heart warms, its racing rhythm settling to a steady canter as she smiles at Sidney.

“Forgive me, Tom.” She smiles, “The next dance is yours, but I believe there is someone Sidney would like me to meet.”

Tom looks bemused, but not unhappy. “No matter!” He declares, looking between them curiously before shaking his head, “Once more into the breach - perhaps I shall find a more willing ear for Sanditon’s regatta on the terrace!”

He wades through the crowd as Charlotte tucks her arm into Sidney’s proffered elbow. 

“I do not-” He says abruptly as they walk, and Charlotte looks up to see the sharp lines of his face furrowed into a frown, “Charlotte, I hope you know-”

She does not bother correcting his use of her Christian name, only presses her arm gently against his. 

“I know.” She says softly, and endeavours to make herself believe it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cackles like Georgiana* I'm sorry you thought you'd got away without any more angst didn't you? Not on this melodramatic train. *chokes on diabolical laughter*
> 
> I'll be real guys, I rewatched the end of episode six about five times in order to write this chapter and it ripped out my heart. Also if anybody knows where I can listen to the Sanditon soundtrack please let me know, because I need it like Charlotte needs Sidney to stop being an idiot before the start of Season 2. So like, a lot.  
> Till next time!


	12. Tomorrow will I send

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried for angst, but brace for some fluff you guys because these beans were too cute to control. (there may be a tiny bit of angst at the end - you decide.)  
> I know a lot of people say they dislike Eliza, and it's fair that she's quite disparaging towards Charlotte at the Regatta but also?? What is her motivation? Does she love Sidney? Who knows! I've deeply enjoyed various character studies for Eliza on this site, but I'll admit I have yet to get a handle on my own headcanon for her.  
> Let me know what you think :P

"Sidney!" Eliza Campion greets Sidney warmly, her eyes flickering to Charlotte and to the arm that is tucked in Sidney's elbow. Mrs. Campion smiles politely, "I do not know your friend." She chuckles lightly, almost self-deprecatingly, but Charlotte hears the sting.  _ They are all here to be seen _ , Crowe had said. Charlotte is an unknown in a crowd of people who wish to be known.

She thinks of Georgiana's warning, but in truth Mrs. Campion's slight falls somewhat flat. Charlotte has no wish to be known in the first place.

She smiles and curtsies as Sidney introduces them.

"Charlotte Heywood." Mrs Campion repeats, "A sweet name."

Sidney snorts slightly, and both women look at him in surprise.

"Forgive me," He says, looking amused, "Sweetness is somewhat the least of Charlotte's attributes." 

"This, coming from you!" Charlotte responds automatically. He smirks and leans forward.

"I did not say you were  _ not _ sweet, only that you have better accomplishments to your name." He chuckles as she rolls her eyes.

"You have a terrible way of giving a compliment." She chastises, and he looks unrepentant. Mrs Campion is watching them with slight consternation, one brow arched in surprise and a wry smile on her lips.

"Charlotte indeed." She observes lightly, "An old acquaintance?"

Sidney and Charlotte look at one another for a moment, and Sidney's mouth quirks up at the side.

"I have known Miss Heywood nearly half a dozen years." He tells Mrs. Campion, and Charlotte's heart gains pace at the easy truth of the confession, "Though I admit I was playing the fool halfway round the world for most of those."

"Hardly the fool!" Mrs. Campion laughs, "You were making your fortune."

"Quite." Sidney's face grows rather stormy, "Though it would perhaps have been better if I had not." Mrs Campion looks at him, wide-eyed. It is not lost on Charlotte that she has been firmly dropped from the conversation.

"Whatever can you mean Sidney?" Mrs Campion smiles, "Society is yours for the taking."

"Believe me, I am not quite that rich." Sidney says gruffly, though his smile is one of strained politeness, "And Miss Heywood and I were just discussing our preference for being on the outskirts of such a gathering." He smiles down at her, and Charlotte glances at Mrs. Campion, a touch embarrassed by the open warmth of his regard.

"Mr. Parker is kind to say outskirts," she addresses Mrs. Campion, "In truth I should rather be away from it all together."

"Hear hear." Sidney murmurs from her side. Mrs Campion looks at Charlotte with apparent warmth, but where Charlotte could almost feel the soothing touch of such a gaze from a woman like Mary Parker or the lady Susan, Eliza Campion's lands like cold iron on a frosty day.

"You must be from the country." She says with a confidential smile, "London is an overwhelming dazzle to those who have little experience of it." She laughs gaily, like the shimmer of silver bells.

"Thank you." Says Charlotte politely but firmly, "I find I am quite immune to the dazzle, I simply do not enjoy it." 

"And then!" Mrs Campion continues with a worldly air, as though Charlotte had not spoken, "It can be full of dangers too. You would not think so here, Charlotte - may I call you Charlotte?" She does not wait for an answer, "But London is a bustling place full of ruffians as well as the Beau Monde." She smiles condescendingly, "I would not blame you if you felt the need to return to your safe country retreat."

Charlotte has barely opened her mouth to respond before Sidney jumps in.

"Very kind of you, Eliza," He observes wryly, "But believe me when I tell you, Miss Heywood is quite capable of handling herself."

"Well there lies a story if I ever heard one!" Mrs. Campion exclaims, "You cannot tantalize me so with vague professions of Miss Heywood's accomplishments Sidney, I shall go mad from curiosity."

Sidney looks awkward, as though he has only just noticed that he might have been alluding to Charlotte's accomplishments with more than irregular frequency.

"It is not so great a story as Mr. Parker makes it out to be." Charlotte shakes her head with a smile, "I was simply accosted, and managed to break free of the man."

"Goodness gracious!" Mrs. Campion's hand goes to her mouth and her eyes are wide, "I should have been quite terrified Miss Heywood, I do not know how you bore it."

"Admirably." Sidney mutters, then snorts.

"Oh very funny." Charlotte hisses, and she cannot help swatting him with her hand. His lips twitch with suppressed laughter, and Charlotte feels heat creep up her neck as her own impulse to laugh increases.

"In truth." She somewhat gasps with the effort of suppressing her giddy amusement, "It is not an experience I would repeat again willingly, but I admit at the time there was barely a moment to feel anything, let alone fear." The memory of the dark alleyway and Sidney’s startled face rises to her mind, and she chokes down a hysterical giggle.

"Clearly you have had some remarkable adventures, Miss Heywood." Eliza Campion's eyes flicker between Charlotte's flushing face and repressed grin, and Sidney's pursed lips and determined gaze to an apparently fascinating middle distance. 

"Trouble does seem to find Miss Heywood." Sidney observes, mouth still twitching.

"And somehow," Charlotte rejoins wryly, "You are always on hand to witness and contribute."

Sidney throws her a sidelong glance. "It's part of my charm." He says conspiratorially.

And Charlotte cannot help it any longer. The combined exhaustion of the last day, with all of its emotional upheaval, and the exertion of the dance has found the spark to its tinder box in her nerves over meeting Mrs. Campion, and she snorts with laughter, rapidly devolving into gales of amusement.

"Oh forgive me." She says, wheezing as Sidney takes her elbow, looking both alarmed and rather amused, "I truly do not know what has given me such cause to laugh."

"Excuse us." Sidney says calmly to Eliza as he leads Charlotte away, Mrs. Campion's face a picture of confusion. After a moment, his own deep chuckles join her gales of laughter and they draw many a curious glance as they make their way through the gathering.

"Charm." She wheezes, one hand to her ribs as they enter a quiet corridor, "Never once! Have I known you to be charming. Most  _ particularly _ in aggravating situations. In fact I seem to recall that is you who aggravates them in the first place!"

"Ah now that is hardly fair," He declares as she presses one palm to his chest, leaning forward to catch her breath as hiccuping giggles bubble from her throat, "Is that truly what you think of me?"

"Perhaps." Charlotte stops laughing with a final gasp, wiping tears from the corners of her eye with her gloved hand.

"Dear lord." She smiles to his face, "that was nearly as bad as your ridiculous episode at Lady Denham's."

He frowns ruefully, "That was your fault." He says, "You  _ looked _ terribly angry, but you said something utterly ridiculous about my napkin and the incongruity shook me."

"Are you always so easily shaken Mr. Parker?" Charlotte teases, but he does not smile back.

"By you, Miss Heywood?" He looks at her appraisingly, steps closer, "At every turn." His voice is low, and it makes Charlotte shiver, though she is not afraid.

The moment has turned quiet, and Charlotte sighs; leans her forehead against his nose and cheek.

"You confound me too." She admits to his cravat.

"So I've noticed." Sidney tells her wryly. Charlotte looks up and frowns at him.

"What do you mean?" She asks, confused.

"That!" He says warmly, raises a hand to press it against the furrow in Charlotte's brow with infinite tenderness, "This utterly ridiculous furrow that appears on your face whenever you look at me."

"Not  _ every _ time I look at you." Charlotte goes nearly cross-eyed trying to glare at his fingers.

Sidney smiles with delight. "Oh very much every time." He lowers his voice, "Sometimes I would catch you frowning and wonder if I had done something wrong of which I was not aware, it made me quite self-conscious."

"It did not!" Charlotte swats his hand away. "If I truly frown at you so much, is it not because you deliberately choose to provoke me?" She glares at him, the faint soaring of the orchestra echoing through the walls as the noise of the gathering swells and recedes like an exuberant tide.

"Perhaps I do it deliberately." Sidney raises an eyebrow, and Charlotte does her best to keep her face from contorting in confusion.

Judging by his amused smile, it does not work.

“Oh I declare Sidney Parker!” Charlotte pokes him in the chest, “I have never been so infuriated by any person in the world as I am by you!”

“Trust me, it is entirely mutual.” He clasps both hands around the one attacking his chest, presses it against his heart.

“You,” Charlotte chokes, staring at her palm as it is enveloped by both of his. “Are not allowed to be romantic when I am irritated with you.”

“Well,” Sidney looks serious, but his eyes are filled with light, “It seems you are always irritated with me.”

“I...cannot disagree.” Charlotte blinks, looks up into his face. His expression is content, amused. Charlotte is dissatisfied with it. She takes a deep breath, drawing on all her courage for the second time that day. “I hope you know, Mr. Parker.” She pauses, eyes darting from the dark corridor to his face as she feels her courage falter, “I hope that you understand that whatever regard you feel for me,” She looks up and away again, cannot read his solemn expression, “It is returned.” She says with a deep breath, and he clasps her hand more tightly against his chest. “Every bit of it is returned.” Finally, she meets his eyes, finds them swimming with emotion. 

“Miss Heywood.” He begins in a low voice, and this time when Charlotte shivers she knows that he feels it, close as they are. “Charlotte,” He says quietly, “When we spoke this afternoon, you told me that I might ask you a question.”

“I did.” Charlotte says breathlessly.

“That you would accept,” He says slowly, deliberately, “Whatever I asked of you.”

“I would.” She raises her chin, defiant, “I would accept.” He smiles, a smile that seems to pull almost against his will at all the corners of his face. 

“I know I said I would ask in Sanditon,” He begins, and Charlotte’s heart races, “But I cannot- I wish-”

“Sidney!” They jump apart, and Charlotte fidgets with her hair and smiles awkwardly as Tom greets his brother. Sidney accepts a clasp to his shoulder with a resigned expression, his eyes darting to Charlotte with an apologetic look. 

“I am for bed!” Tom proclaims, “I fear everyone is too far into the punch to even place my card in their pockets.” He chortles, although his expression is rather harried. Charlotte fears even Tom’s optimism has failed in the face of their disinterested audience. 

“And yet!” Tom continues, “A most fortunate stroke of luck, Sidney -who should I find but Eliza Campion! And she told me she had already spoken with you? My dear fellow, you should have told me!” He gestures towards the draped curtains that frame the corridor, and for the first time Charlotte notices that another figure is standing there. 

Mrs. Campion is smiling, though her figure is stiff with some repressed emotion. Charlotte cannot tell whether it is anger or hurt which dominates her expression, but from the way the woman is avoiding meeting Charlotte’s gaze, she knows Eliza Campion observed the intimacy between Charlotte and Sidney that Tom Parker had missed.

“Miss Heywood.” She says politely, then inclines her head to Sidney in a slightly jolting motion. “Do excuse me.” She smiles distractedly, “It seems my task here is done.”

She disappears in a whisper of silk, and Charlotte cannot help the shame that rises up in her breast. Whatever her faults, whatever her poor choices in the past, Charlotte cannot take pleasure in her pain.

She turns to look at Sidney, knows her expression must convey all her thoughts clearly. He returns her gaze, eyes sad. 

“Sanditon.” He says in a low voice, and Charlotte nods in agreement. It shall be in Sanditon, a place which is theirs more than this smoky fog of a city. 

“Sanditon indeed!” Tom smiles tiredly, “We shall depart tomorrow afternoon. But now - to bed, to bed!”

“What’s done cannot be undone.” Charlotte murmurs to herself, and smiles sorrowfully at her rather morbid turn of thought. 

Her spirits revive somewhat as Sidney hands her into the carriage, and although they are quiet as they drive back to Bedford Square, it is not too uneasy a silence. Charlotte begins to unpick the pins from her hair, collecting them in one hand. By the time they arrive at the Parker residence, nearly half of them have been removed, and her hair hangs in unruly ringlets. Charlotte clambers from the carriage awkwardly, suppressing a yawn. 

“Breakfast for eleven I believe.” Tom says, “Then to Sanditon as soon as we are ready to travel.”

Charlotte nods, following him slowly up the stairs until they reach the first landing, turning to the next staircase to climb to the second floor where she shares a landing with Georgiana. She is stopped, however, by a light touch upon the hand that gathers the folds of her dress.

Turning, she sees Sidney’s face in the dark, and they both stand quietly as Tom makes his way along the corridor alone. 

“I wished to say goodnight.” Sidney says, once Tom’s door has closed quietly. Charlotte smiles.

“Goodnight.” She says.

“Goodnight.” He echoes. Then, just as she turns to go once more, his hand shoots up to tug on a short ringlet, twines it briefly around a finger before letting it spring back. His eyes are unfocused with tiredness, a half-smile playing at his mouth. 

“Plato knew what he was doing.” He says, and Charlotte blushes. 

“It is not very fashionable.” She says self-consciously, and he shakes his head. 

“It is lovely.” He says, hand still hovering above her hair. He clears his throat, drops his arm to his side. 

“Goodnight, Miss Heywood.” He smiles, “A thousand times goodnight.”

“A better note to end the night on than my choice of Shakespeare.” Charlotte says, swallowing the dryness from her throat. 

“And yet still a tragedy.” He sighs. “I must go, Charlotte, or I will linger until morning.”

“Then  _ go _ .” She smiles, and shoves him lightly as she turns to climb the stairs. He walks away, still facing her as he moves backwards into the dark, each catching the other’s eye for a final glance, a final smile, until at last the corner of the staircase blocks them from one another's sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I don't even know, but leave me alone with Charlotte and Sidney and they always wind up laughing. I like to think it's because they're having fun.  
> *Charlotte quotes Macbeth "What's done cannot be undone - to bed! To bed! To bed!" (it's a bit murdery, to be sure, but she's feeling bad for poor Mrs. C.)  
> *Sidney quotes Romeo's line "A thousand times goodnight" From the balcony scene because...why not. *giggles like a shameful nerd*  
> (title is also from the balcony scene, when Juliet tells Romeo she'll send someone to him so he can make his intentions for marriage official) *waves hands* It's meta, ok?  
> Meant to say - I won't be able to update tomorrow, just wanted to let you know!


	13. The Ocean was always you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helloooo!!! I have to admit, the news from ITV got me down a bit, but I'm desperately hoping that just because it isn't returning to *ITV* it might still get picked up by another network.  
> We can dream.  
> In the meantime, I'm going to paddle in my happy little AU where very little hurts and everybody mostly lives and gets their happily ever after. (Um, apart from Eliza maybe. We'll see.)  
> I think there should be two more instalments after this one - a final chapter and an epilogue. I'll update the chapter count when the final chapter is properly written up and I'm not sideswiped by any strange plot twists. (Like, idk, Sidney randomly marrying a woman he doesn't love for money. Ridiculous, right? I'm not salty like the sea, not at all.)  
> More fluff, you said? With a dash of angst and a sprinkle of plot? Your chapter is served.

Georgiana’s face at breakfast is stained with old tears. She looks as though she has barely slept, and she scarcely touches the food in front of her. 

Tom looks awkward, whilst Sidney and Charlotte do their best to exchange worried glances without catching Georgiana’s attention. 

They get ready for the long drive rather slowly, and several times Charlotte tries to speak to Georgiana, only to be shut down. 

“Did you have a nice time?” Georgiana asks quietly, standing dully in the centre of her room as Charlotte packs around her. 

“...Somewhat mixed.” Charlotte admits, but smiles hopefully, “Sidney and I managed a dance.”

“That is good.” Georgiana smiles back weakly, but her lip trembles and her face falls after a few bare seconds. 

The eight hours on the road are much the same. 

As they change horses, Tom declares a need for a glass of wine at the inn. Sidney declines, wishing to stretch his legs and Charlotte hastily volunteers to accompany him, urging Georgiana to do the same. She shrinks back into the coach and shakes her head. Sidney nods firmly to Mr. Young, who tips his hat as he supervises the unbuckling of the horses’ tackle.

“I’ll keep an eye out.” He promises in a deep West Country burr. 

“We have but twenty minutes.” Sidney informs Charlotte, and she smiles wanly. 

“Any break from the carriage is a welcome relief.” He glances at her sharply, concerned.

“I had not thought.” He admits, looking ahead at the small cramped houses whose second storeys overhang the long road that curves to the left. “Do you refer simply to Georgiana, or is it that carriage journeys in general are a discomfort to you?”

“I doubt they are pleasant for anyone.” Charlotte observes, then adds after a moment of hesitation, “You will not think me a coward? For I profess that I am never more uncomfortable than when I am in a moving coach.”

“I doubt I could ever think of you as a coward.” He smiles at her, arms tucked behind his back as they wander slowly down a small lane, pavement giving way to cobbles that pinch at Charlotte’s flimsy shoes. 

“I should have worn my boots.” She says with a jealous look at his sturdy footwear, and he laughs. 

“You should learn to dress better for your adventurous nature.” He teases, and Charlotte wrinkles her nose. 

“Cobbles are not an adventure, they are simply a nuisance. In these shoes, at least.”

“Did you not have a blue pair?” He asks with a frown, as though recalling something. Charlotte blushes with pleasure that he had remembered. 

“At the ball, in Sanditon.” She nods, “I have not had chance to wear them since.”

“They were...unusual.” He says, and she shoves him gently, making him duck his head in a pleased grin.

“Oh hush.” She says, “You liked them enough to notice them.”

“I liked _you_ enough to notice them.” He retaliates, then seems to flinch slightly in embarrassment. 

“You did not!” Charlotte exclaims, confounded. “You despised me! You called me naive, what was it? Something…’a girl with so little experience of the world’!”

“I could have said worse.” He admits, “But I grant you my tone was deeply unkind.”

Charlotte levels him a stony glare, and he sighs.

“I was...disappointed.” He smiles briefly, then his lips drop into a scowl. “I had just offended Georgiana, and then lost something precious, and all of a sudden Tom was summoning me to Sanditon, a place I hated to be-”

“Why?” Charlotte interrupts, “Why did you hate Sanditon?”

“Why do you think?” He looks at her, unimpressed. Charlotte turns away to hide the emotion in her face, gazing steadily at a small cottage with a vase of dark red flowers in the window. 

“You never told me.” She says quietly, “I learned as much, from Tom. From Georgiana, even. But never properly from you.”

“What did Georgiana have to say about it?” Sidney frowns, perplexed. “I never spoke of you to her.”

“You lost something.” Charlotte reminds him, unwilling to share Georgiana’s secret.

“Ah.” He bows his head. “It was a silly trinket. A keepsake, that is all. I should have mastered myself better over the matter.”

“Not so silly.” Charlotte smiles, still looking at the flowers. She glances up at him from around the brim of her bonnet, “I kept your handkerchief.” She reminds him. 

“Hmm.” He nods, then smiles wryly at her. “Then threw it in my face.” Charlotte winces. 

“You were being insufferable.” She tells him, then turns to face him properly with a deep breath. “And I admit my pride was hurt that you had not recognised me. I thought myself forgotten.”

He looks at her, eyes slightly creased against the mid-afternoon sun. 

“Never forgotten.” He says quietly, then turns to look into the light, squinting fully as his face contorts in thought. “I confess so much of my anger over Sanditon was bound up with my anger over you, and over Eliza. I felt like an idiot.” He twitches his lips self-deprecatingly, “To rush headlong from one impossible affection to another attachment, and one formed over such a brief period. You must think me an inconstant man. I found myself simply a foolish one.”

“It’s been six years.” Charlotte tells him, “How could I find you inconstant?”

“Foolish, then.” He sighs.

“I kept your handkerchief.” She reminds him again, and he looks back at her. 

“So you did.” He says quietly. “I confess,” He casts an introspective look to the ground, “I find it hard to disentangle my disappointed feelings about Sanditon from my current happiness.”

He looks at her, and Charlotte cannot help the lift in her heart or the smile that tugs at her lips at his confession that he is happy. 

“I have found you.” He says, eyes serious, “Yet I find it hard to accept that all that pain is at an end. When you have wanted something impossible for so long-” He squints once more into the sunlight. 

“I understand.” Charlotte tells him. She reaches for his arm, tugs it gently until he lets one hand fall to his side. She slips her gloved hand inside his own. 

“My waiting for you was not as difficult, I believe.” She tells him honestly, “I did not know what love was enough to feel it. But I did wait, I think.”

“I cannot imagine I was possibly worth it.” He says with a wry twist to his lips.

“Oh there’s still time.” Charlotte says lightly, squeezing his fingers gently.

They stand in the sunshine in silence, enjoying the quiet of the summer’s day. 

“We should go back.” Sidney murmurs, and Charlotte nods. 

“I am worried for Georgiana.” She admits, and he hums in agreement. 

“We shall hope the Regatta lifts her spirits, as well as Tom’s fortunes.” He says, although he does not sound optimistic. 

“We shall hope.” Charlotte says firmly. She does not let go of his hand until they are in sight of the inn, and Sidney’s hand flexes slightly as she withdraws it, as though he were anxious to have it back again. 

The preparation for the Regatta is a waking nightmare. Lady Denham is deathly ill, and Tom and Mary Parker exist in a state of awkward civility. Sidney and Charlotte barely speak to one another, too busy softening the atmosphere which veers erratically between frigid and desperate. 

At last, the day of the Regatta dawns, and with it an unexpected visitor. 

“Mrs. Campion!” A grinning Tom introduces her as Charlotte sits, knee deep in sand. 

“Miss Heywood.” Mrs. Campion greets her politely, and Charlotte stares in shock before rising hastily. 

“Mrs. Campion!” She exclaims. “I did not expect you.”

“No indeed.” The woman smiles coldly as Tom nods, bustling along to the next group of guests. “Miss Heywood, I wondered if we might have a word. Unless, that is,” She raises a disdainful brow, “You are required to supervise the children?”

“Not required.” Charlotte smiles politely, “I simply wished to. But I’m sure Arthur will very happily take my place.” She calls him over, and he bumbles and bustles towards the children with a smile, sweeping little Henry up into his arms with a joyful shout.

Mrs. Campion does not offer her arm, and they walk side by side down the long stretch of sand. Charlotte’s leg struggles slightly on the uneven surface, but she simply compensates her gait slightly. Mrs. Campion looks sideways at her, raising an eyebrow.

“You are injured, Miss Heywood?” She asks, and Charlotte shakes her head.

“An old complaint.” She tells her. She finds that much of her fear for this woman is faded in the light of day. She is just a woman, and Charlotte can equal her in that. “A carriage accident, when I was younger.”

“Ah.” Mrs. Campion clears her throat. 

“It was how I met Mr. Parker, in fact.” Charlotte forges on, not quite knowing why. “Sidney.” She clarifies. “My acquaintance with the rest of his family came later.”

“Ah.” Mrs. Campion says more quietly. 

“It was of Sidney that you wished you speak, was it not?” Charlotte presses, for she has no wish to talk to Mrs. Campion longer than she must. The woman looks at her for a moment, toying with her sleeve before straightening with a brief smile. 

“Indeed.” She says, pausing to look at Charlotte with a clear gaze. “I am sure you know,” She begins, “That Sidney and I had an understanding.”

Charlotte looks at her for a moment, weighs her words carefully. “That was many years ago.” She says gently. 

“Perhaps.” Mrs. Campion rushes on, “But he was distraught, you know. Heartbroken. I too-” She looks into Charlotte’s face, “I too have waited, longed for him. We are owed our chance.”

Charlotte looks at her, rather befuddled.

“But...you gave it away.” She says, not quite understanding. “You _had_ a chance. He gave you a ring, in a handkerchief he made himself! How was that not your chance?”

Mrs. Campion goes pale. 

“I had almost forgotten.” She whispers, then blinks sharply. “He told you of that?” She asks, hand trembling slightly. 

“He did.” Charlotte says stoutly, “He could not help it, I think. It upset him deeply.” She glares at Mrs. Campion.

“Yes.” The other woman blinks rapidly. “I was a fool.” She says at last. Then turns to Charlotte, a blazing desperation in her eyes, “Would you really take him from me? Knowing he can never be yours when he was always mine from the start?”

Charlotte looks at her, aghast. 

“You forget yourself, Mrs. Campion.” She says stiffly, “Sidney belongs to no one but himself.” She turns to go, wrenching her arm away as Mrs. Campion snakes out a hand to stop her.

“Do not!” Charlotte exclaims, breathing sharply as she storms away. After a few paces, she turns, the other woman still standing frozen on the sand, “If you think I am _taking_ him from you,” Charlotte declares, “Then you know nothing of what it is to love. Love is _giving_ ,” she says firmly, “I could not take it if I wanted to.”

She leaves Mrs. Campion there, striding furiously across the sand until her anger has burned out like the mist from the early morning, and there is only clear air and the freshness of a new day. 

Lady Susan’s arrival confounds Charlotte. She feels the beginning of a headache pounding at her temples, but she cannot help but greet the woman with a smile. 

“Does a certain Mr. Parker know that you are in love with him?” Susan enquires mischievously, and Charlotte rolls her eyes and blushes.

“Perhaps not quite in so many words.” She admits, “But I believe - I hope - we have an understanding.”

“Ah.” Lady Susan nods. “And Mrs C.? I confess I did a little digging, Charlotte. Are you certain she is not a threat?”

“Why must we speak in threats.” Charlotte sighs, then remembers herself. “Forgive me, your ladyship!” She hurries on, “I only meant that it seems an escalation of a matter that is more simply a confusion of feeling.” She frowns, tries to explain. “I cannot be threatened by another woman’s interest in a man I have feelings for, I can only feel concern that he will return them.”

“Susan, please.” The woman entreats, “And you have no need to apologise. You are quite right, threat is a foolish word. But do you? Feel concern that he returns Mrs. C’s regard?”

Charlotte frowns.

“Perhaps I feared that he would realise what a poor choice he had made, placing his affection in me.” She ponders, “But I am no more responsible for his choice than for her feelings.”

“Wisely said.” Lady Susan sighs deeply and looks into the distance, “Your equanimity quite puts me to shame Miss Heywood. I confess I came to Sanditon to see how your romance played out, it quite intrigued me and I thought there might be rocky waters ahead.” She smiles at Charlotte, “I find myself rather glad that you have banished the storm.”

“How have I banished it?” Charlotte asks, confused. Lady Susan shrugs.

“Insecurity is a great weakness.” She says, “Anyone can capsize a boat on a calm sea if they stand up in agitation. Or jealousy.” She looks sidelong at Charlotte, and Charlotte smiles at her weakly. 

“I am horribly jealous.” She confesses, “But I do not know how to show it.”

Lady Susan just throws back her head and laughs.

“I do not think you need to be my dear,” She says merrily, “Lord knows from what I have seen, you have precious little competition for Mr. Parker’s attention.”

“We have not spoken all day.” Charlotte looks at Susan in confusion, and the woman smiles indulgently.

“And yet.” She says, savouring her words, “He has been watching you every minute I have been here to witness him doing so.”

Charlotte glances up at the bank to see the three Parker brothers, deep in conversation. None of them are paying her the slightest bit of attention, and she nearly turns to Susan to refute her claim. But as she watches, Sidney’s head swivels slightly in her direction, as though he knew exactly where to look to reassure himself of her presence. As he turns back to his conversation, Charlotte greets Lady Susan’s knowing smile and raised eyebrows with a light blush. 

“Perhaps.” She allows, unable to stop her own smile from spreading across her face, and the two women continue in companionable silence. 

Sidney and his brothers lose the race, but he does not seem to mind. Charlotte claps her hands and congratulates Mr. Stringer, smiling at Sidney as she turns to leave. He nods, face lightly beaded with sweat. Mary calls upon Charlotte to help her with the children, and Charlotte turns to go willingly.

Mrs. Campion lingers, but Charlotte steels herself.

It is Sidney’s choice, and she knows in her heart that he has already made it. 

He finds her that evening, tidying in Tom’s study. He stands awkwardly in the door, arms tucked behind his back once more in his favourite form of repose. 

She smiles at him, greets him quietly. 

“Eliza spoke to me.” He clears his throat, and Charlotte looks up.

“I saw that she wished to speak with you.” She says calmly, and he frowns slightly. 

“I do not think that I have given her cause to believe I still have feelings for her.” He admits, and Charlotte nods.

“I do not believe so either.” She looks up at him with a smile, shrugs gently. “The heart is stubborn.”

“I did not think she loved me.” He blinks. “I doubted that she ever did.”

“Perhaps she did not know it.” Charlotte frowns, “I do not understand her.” She confesses, and Sidney laughs sharply.

“Nor I, I think.” He admits. He looks down, scuffs his boot gently against the carpet to straighten a stray tassel at its edges. “She has gone back to London.” He says quietly. 

“Thank you.” Charlotte says quietly. 

“For what?” He looks up at her, surprised. 

“For telling me.” She shrugs, somewhat startled to find tears threatening the corners of her eyes.

“I-...” Sidney looks at her for a moment as she blinks feverishly. “Charlotte.” He says gently, “I was never going to choose her.”

“I know.” Her voice comes out thick with emotion, and she sniffs defiantly. 

“A man cannot step in the same river twice.” He says in a low tone.

“For it is not the same river, and he is not the same man.” Charlotte rolls her eyes, biting her lip slightly. “What does that make us?”

He looks at her steadily.

“That is quite different.” He says, “You are the one who changed me from the man I was. More a current I became swept up in than a river to be stepped in, I think.”

Charlotte snorts with mingled amusement and emotion. 

“You are a ridiculous man.” She says, poking gently at Tom’s papers. Sidney smiles, turns to go, but Charlotte calls him back with a frown. 

“Wait!” She picks up a crisp envelope that lies unopened, “I found another like this, in London. What is it, do you think?”

Sidney walks over, takes it up in his hand. It is addressed to Tom, but he rips it open without hesitation, scans the words quickly. His eyes grow wide with shock, and Charlotte frowns at him, desperate to know its contents. 

“Dear god.” He exclaims quietly before she can demand an explanation. He looks up, his expression grave. “We must find Tom immediately.”

He strides from the room in haste, letter grasped in his fist. Charlotte can do nothing but follow, praying that they do not carry Sanditon's destruction with them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *contrives plot real hard*
> 
> I nearly had Charlotte trip over the letters (what could be inside them???) with her cane, but that was one deus ex machina too far, even for Charlotte's trusty stick. 
> 
> I'll be honest - this chapter feels rather rushed to me. I haven't had much writing time, and I was never going to linger long on the Regatta anyway. Hopefully it isn't a disappointment! (For those of you who wanted a rerun of the boat scene, just mentally edit out some of the dialogue and leave the intense levels of UST about the same as they were in the show. There you go, that's exactly how it happened here.)
> 
> Please do let me know what you think! I love and treasure every single hit on my ridiculous flight of fancy, and every comment and kudos is like the icing on an already phenomenal cake.


	14. The thunderbolt that steers the course of all things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter peoples! A few of you have expressed disappointment that it's coming to an end, but really there's only so many cute domestic scenes I can write before it just becomes a Sidlotte sitcom, and really, who wants that? (me, kinda, but I won't be writing it.)  
> In (hopefully?) good news, I'll probably be writing more for these two at some point. Leave me to my ideas, I have a few floating around in there, so hopefully watch this space!  
> I'll be doing a short epilogue soonish, but this is pretty much the end. Thank you for taking the journey with me, I hope you've all enjoyed it! I set off with very little idea of where I was going, and I somehow got here. What can you do.  
> See you on the other side!

Tom is abed, but Sidney rattles the handle and pounds upon the wood until he wakes.

"Dear god, what is the matter man!" Tom stands in the doorway, wearing nothing but a long flannel nightgown and a befuddled expression. The side of his face is creased in sleep.

"Tom?" Mary's voice comes from within, "What is it?" 

"I do not know, my dear!" Tom calls back, "It is Sidney and Charlotte looking most serious."

Sidney presses the paper against his chest just as Mary comes to the door, a grey shawl drawn about her.

Tom scans the letter, and his face goes white, then angry.

"Why did you wake me up for this?" He hisses, "I know well enough what my debts are."

"Debts?" Mary looks from Tom to Sidney. Finally her gaze lands on Charlotte, who can only stare back helplessly.

"Clearly not!" Sidney exclaims, his voice rough with passion. He taps his finger against the paper with a sharp sound that makes them all flinch. "It is not a debt, Tom! It is an investment!"

Tom's mouth drops open, and he scans the letter again. "Well I never!" He exclaims, looks up from the paper and down again, "Well I never! Sidney! He means to invest nearly twenty thousand pounds."

Mary's hand goes to her mouth, but Sidney's frown does not disappear. 

"And yet you knew nothing of it." He accuses, "why send me endlessly to the banks of London for loans if you had investors such as these?"

"I-" Tom stammers, "I thought it was a creditor."

Sidney looks at him, somewhat aghast.

"You did not even read it to find out?"

"Of course I read it!" Tom exclaims, "The first time it came I read it, and I saw a stupendous sum of money and I thought it was the bank!"

"You are running up debts of nearly twenty-thousand pounds?" Sidney looks furious, "With not a word to any of us! Your family! When it is our lives, our investments, our very security which lies with you?"

"My dear fellow," Tom protests, "You have your own fortune."

"As collateral for yours!" Sidney exclaims, as near to a roar his lowered voice will allow. "For how was I to use it for myself? What hope of a future had I to look forward to? And now-" He glances at Charlotte briefly, eyes flickering with anger. He takes a deep breath, lowers his voice once more. "I would have security, Tom." He demands quietly, "I am in awe of your vision, but I demand that you accept my involvement in your finances."

"But my dear Sidney-" Tom begins, but Mary rests her hand upon his arm, her face pale but determined.

"Listen to your brother." She instructs him, "I love you dearly, but if we are to be honest with each other, then I must tell you that you have no head for figures." She smiles weakly, casting a look both horrified and hopeful at the paper in his hand, "Let your brother help you." She entreats, and Tom softens.

"You are both right." He admits wearily, "I have tried. But I have no head for it. The figures dance before my eyes and I have ever been a slow reader." He stoops slightly, grimacing "And as of this moment my every muscle aches fiercely." He looks up, hopeful, "Do you suppose we might continue this conversation in the morning?"

“By all means.” Sidney bites out, storming down the corridor with a curt nod. Mary and Charlotte share a brief look of understanding.

“I shall leave you to your rest.” Charlotte says awkwardly, and Mary smiles at her as Tom yawns his way back to bed.

“Good luck.” Mary whispers, and Charlotte pulls a face.

Sidney is downstairs, pouring feverishly over Tom’s papers.

“You want the pile in the left-hand drawer.” Charlotte says quietly. He tugs it open and looks up at her.

“How did you know?” He asks. 

“That you were looking for Tom’s loans or that they were there in the first place?” Charlotte asks, and Sidney looks confounded.

“Both, I think.” He rifles through them, then heaves an exasperated sigh. “How can he have his letters sorted by the precise date and purpose, but not comprehend any of their contents?”

Charlotte ducks her head, feeling rather guilty.

“That is my fault.” She admits. Sidney raises an eyebrow.

“Your fault?” He says, “That my brother is an idiosyncratic fool?”

“No.” Charlotte shakes her head, retrieving the ledger from the shelf, “That the papers are sorted.”

“You sorted them?” Sidney swivels in the chair as she moves behind him to look through the papers. Charlotte nods.

“Then how did you not know about this sooner?” He demands, gesturing to the papers in front of them. Charlotte glares at him, affronted.

“I did not _read_ them!” She exclaims, “That would have been an insult to Tom’s privacy. I only read what I needed to order them.”

“Of course you did.” Sidney stares at her for a moment, and his mouth twitches in a reluctant smile. He pushes the now opened letter in front of her, “Would you like to peruse the contents of your discovery at least?”

“Would Tom mind?” Charlotte hesitates.

“Damn Tom.” Sidney’s fist lands rather hard on the table, and Charlotte jumps. “I am sorry.” He apologises, “I simply continue to be amazed by his ability to be foolhardy.”

“Not so foolhardy,” Says Charlotte rather absent-mindedly as she reads the letter, “He has two investors now, at least. Lady Denham is recovering well.”

“Truly, I rejoice at the news.” Sidney says sarcastically. 

“She is not so bad.” Charlotte casts a look at him. He frowns at her, leans back in the chair.

“She was atrocious to Georgiana,” He points out, “And hideous to you. Where do her finer qualities lie?”

Charlotte frowns, struggling to think of a decent rebuttal. She looks down at the letter once more, and is caught by the signature. 

“What?” She mutters. She looks at Sidney, then back at the page. Charlotte thrusts it in his face. “Read the signature.” She demands. Sidney leans over the paper.

“Lord Seton, Charles Derney.” He reads, then looks back at Charlotte, “What of it?”

“I think he is my uncle.” She says faintly, then sits down hard.

“Charlotte.” Sidney says in a strained voice, “This chair is already occupied.”

“Forgive me!” Charlotte leaps up, heat rushing to her cheeks, “I was quite distracted.” 

Sidney raises an eyebrow at her, and Charlotte rushes on, trying to quell her embarrassment. “Charles Derney was my uncle - the very uncle you met in the carriage, do you remember?”

Sidney frowns, “I thought he was a sea Captain?”

“He was.” Charlotte nods, “The third son of Lord Seton, but both his brothers died I believe. He inherited the title, along with rather a lot of money from his mother’s side.”

“Why do you not speak of him?” Sidney enquires, “Does it slip your mind that you have a relative amongst the nobility?”

“Somewhat.” Charlotte admits, and Sidney snorts. “We do not really talk.” She explains, “My aunt died three years ago, giving birth to their son. He wrote for a few months, but I think he felt too much grief. We had never met, except for the once in Sanditon. It was not so very strange.”

“You do realise most people would not let that stop them from ingratiating themselves with a wealthy relative?” Sidney asks her, and Charlotte can tell that he is teasing her. 

“Fear not, Mr. Parker.” She smiles, “I intended to throw myself upon his mercy if my husband-hunting proved a failure.”

“Ah yes.” He nods gravely, “I had heard you had lofty matrimonial goals. It was a castle you were after, was it not?”

“A _very_ large manor at the least.” Charlotte says with aplomb, “Two stables as well.”

“And a horse named Plato.” Sidney smiles. 

“Don’t be silly.” Charlotte pokes him, “There is already a horse named Plato.” Sidney’s face creases with amusement, some of the tiredness falling from his eyes. 

“I cannot wait to make his acquaintance.” He says quietly, and Charlotte smiles fondly at him. 

“Did you intend to sort papers all night?” She enquires, “Or might I encourage you to get some rest?”

“Encourage all you like.” Sidney tells her, “I wanted to see how bad it was, or I shall get no sleep even if I go to bed.”

“Then I shall stay with you.” Charlotte smiles at him, and lifts a chair over to the desk next to him. Sidney looks at it with a combination of resignation and disappointment. 

“Not a word.” Charlotte says to him, blushing furiously, and he only chuckles. 

They sort the papers quietly, and though at first Charlotte is horrified by the vast sums of money that seem to trickle through her fingers, but by the time the clocks chime two they are approaching a comprehensive view of Tom’s finances. 

“Five thousand pounds in debt is not inextricable.” Sidney says, stretching his arms above his head. Charlotte hides a yawn behind her hand.

“If you had told me that this afternoon I would have looked at you as though you were a madman.” She tells him, “But I admit, after seeing everything in greater perspective it seems eminently manageable.”

“Welcome to business.” Sidney smiles tiredly. Charlotte pushes a letter in front of him, one of the earliest sent by her uncle. 

“He writes here, asking for proof that the work is insured.” She points to a paragraph with some alarming figures. Sidney frowns.

“That is no doubt why Tom mistook it for a bill.” He grunts, “And we have not found any insurance papers.”

“Is that bad?” Charlotte enquires hesitantly. Sidney looks at her, rolling his neck slightly to loosen it. 

“It is not good.” He admits, “Potentially it would save him money, but in a venture this large it is the height of foolishness to attempt work without insurance. Accidents happen all the time.”

“I see.” Charlotte nods. She looks at her uncle’s signature, recognising the loops and swirls from long ago when he signed the marriage registry, though his name was without the title, then. “He must have loved her very much.” She says quietly.

“Your aunt?” Sidney asks, frowning at the paper. Charlotte nods.

“They had their honeymoon here.” She smiles, shrugs. “That’s how I came to be in Sanditon.”

“The world is full of strangely repeating patterns.” Sidney observes, his tone pensive. Charlotte only nods, drooping with exhaustion. 

“Come.” Sidney says in a low voice, “The hour is very late. We should get some rest.”

“I am always up at odd hours with you.” Charlotte says absently as she stands from the chair, arching her back slightly from the strain of sitting so long. 

Sidney chokes on a quiet cough, and she glances at him, beholding with astonishment the tinge of a blush on his cheeks. 

“Did I say something wrong?” She asks, confused, and Sidney ducks his head. 

“Not in the least.” He throws her a brief smile, and she nods, satisfied. 

“Goodnight, Mr. Parker.” She almost puts her hand on his arm, but doubts herself at the last moment. 

“Goodnight, Miss Heywood.” He says solemnly. “I shall see you in the morning.”

“In the morning.” Charlotte echoes, and as she turns to go Sidney clears his throat. She looks back.

“Do you think-?” He seems hesitant, “Would tomorrow…or perhaps when I return from Tom’s business in London?” He gestures at the papers in front of him in frustration.

It takes Charlotte a moment to catch his meaning, and her heart seems to recognise it before her brain, picking up its pace with a delighted thump. She smiles at him again, blinking heavily.

“I did say that I would answer, whenever it was you wanted to ask me.” She tells him, and he nods.

“That was all.” He says, bowing lightly as she turns from the room once more. As Charlotte climbs the stairs she reflects on what a strange day it has been. Too much has happened to think upon it all, so Charlotte does not. She gets ready for bed slowly, quietly, and falls asleep with a small smile upon her face. 

  
  


There is a conspiracy afoot, Charlotte is sure of it. She has never been more frustrated in her life.

Sidney had left early to file the insurance papers in London the day after the regatta, and returned only two days before the ball.

Charlotte had spent the four days in between slowly drawing Georgiana out from her shell, although her friend is still reluctant to be around people for long periods of time.

They take to walking along the clifftops, sometimes speaking, sometimes not. 

“Has Sidney asked you yet?” Georgiana enquires once, rather out of the blue. Charlotte looks at a stray patch of heather and smiles.

“Not yet,” She says calmly, “When he is back from London, I imagine.”

Georgiana simply nods, and lets the matter drop. 

But Charlotte’s patient complacency has all but evaporated in the last forty-eight hours.

Since his return, Sidney’s every effort to be alone with her has been thwarted by his well-meaning family. They are all much lighter of spirit since Charlotte and Sidney took it upon themselves to tackle their financial muddle, and despite the fact that Tom is still in considerable debt, his mood becomes almost unbearably chipper. He takes to accosting Sidney at odd moments, usually when Sidney is just about to speak with Charlotte.

Mary walks in on them in the sitting room, Arthur heads them off as they stroll down the street, and when Sidney comes up with the brilliant notion of a walk into town - via the cliffs which are further from the town than they are themselves - little Henry kicks Charlotte in the left thigh and she collapses like a puppet with its strings cut. 

Charlotte wants to cry from frustration. She nearly does, but Henry looks tremendously sorry as it is. Sidney, meanwhile, demonstrates a remarkable ability to look concerned whilst contemplating homicide towards a four-year-old.

Then Henry turns his face into Sidney’s coat to cry about how sorry he is, and Sidney just ends up looking concerned. 

“The ball?” Charlotte suggests as he helps her up, Mary soothing a distraught Henry. 

“The ball.” Sidney confirms grimly.

“You could just ask me now.” Charlotte says lightly, and Sidney grunts and looks slightly awkward.

“I rather wish to do it properly.” He laments, and she sighs. 

“The ball, then.” She smiles, and hobbles her way up the stairs. They try to linger on the landing, but Mary bustles up after them and shoos Sidney away. Charlotte catches her giving them a knowing glance as they exchange frustrated looks, and she gives up with a blush, retreating to her room.

It is most definitely a conspiracy. 

The night of the ball arrives, and Charlotte’s heart flutters every moment from the instant she wakes up to the second she alights from the short ride in the carriage.

Mary squeezes her hand, and Charlotte thinks she really needs to give the dear woman the whole story at some point. But there is an element to her understanding with Sidney that seems like a dream, as though it is just waiting to be snatched away. Too wonderful to be true. 

Sidney has not yet arrived, and Charlotte hovers on the edge of the dance floor in agitation. 

Finally, she sees him, and his eyes lock with hers. 

An expression of great determination forms on his countenance, and he forges through the crowd like a man possessed. Charlotte braces herself, a smile already dancing on her lips. 

And then Tom steps in the way. 

“Sidney!” He exclaims, and Sidney halts abruptly like a horse whose reins have just been pulled up sharply.

“Miss Heywood?” Charlotte looks up to see James Stringer’s proffered hand, and she sighs and accepts with a nod and a smile. She turns to look at Sidney once more, apologetically, and sees him looking at Tom with barely concealed frustration. His eyes flicker up to hers and he sees her as she moves to the dance floor, a sharp frown creasing his brow as the realisation they are about to be thwarted again crosses his face.

Charlotte can practically feel the moment his patience snaps.

“For God’s sake Tom!” He flings up his hands, and his tone is so irascible it carries over the throng in the ballroom and halts most conversations in their tracks. 

“Will you not allow me five minutes alone!” He hisses, but such a hush has fallen that nearly everyone in the room can hear him clearly, “I am _trying_ ” He puts every ounce of his frustration into the word, “to propose to Miss Heywood. It has taken me six years, and I would beg leave for six minutes to put the lady out of her misery!”

“To put _you_ out of your misery, you mean.” A dry voice floats over the crowd, and Charlotte recognises Georgiana’s tone instantly. 

Sidney ignores her, turning to look past Tom’s startled face.

“Charlotte.” He says.

“Miss Heywood.” She says automatically. 

“You see!” He turns to Tom, one hand on his hip and the other gesticulating expressively, “This is why it takes so long!” Then he turns back to her, sighing and closing his eyes briefly to compose himself. 

“Miss Heywood.” He says slowly.

“Yes.” She replies, her hand still in James Stringer’s.

“Will you?” He asks, and she blinks.

“Marry you?” She clarifies.

“Quite.” He grinds out between his teeth.

“Of course.” She says simply, and Sidney sighs with relief.

“ _Thank_ you.” He says, then turns back to Tom. “You were saying?” He enquires in a tone considerably more restrained, and Charlotte chokes on a small laugh. 

Tom splutters. "My dear fellow!" He exclaims, "You cannot just simply-" His astonished gaze flickers between Charlotte and Sidney, and Charlotte sees Mary in a corner, wide-eyed but evidently delighted.

"Congratulations to you both!" She cries, and the entire room erupts into polite applause.

Sidney looks horrified. 

"Mr. Stringer." Charlotte gives him an apologetic glance, "Would you mind awfully if I delayed our dance by a few moments?"

He looks at her ruefully, then bends over her hand in a light bow. "Not at all Miss Heywood." He smiles, "I wish you the greatest happiness with Mr. Parker."

"Thank you." She says earnestly, then turns firmly towards her fiance.

He is still looking around in consternation when she approaches.

"Perhaps we should go outside?" She suggests, and Sidney pauses before nodding his head stiffly.

Tom follows them, still exclaiming in fragmented sentences, and from the corner of her eye Charlotte sees Mary as she rushes to follow. 

"What romance." Says a droll voice to her left, and Charlotte turns to see Georgiana at her elbow. The back of Sidney's neck reddens, but he says nothing. 

Charlotte smiles beatifically at her friend.

"Oh would you stop looking so happy." Georgiana declares, but a silly smile creases her own face. She leans over to Charlotte with a loud, deliberate whisper, “Do you think he meant to announce it to the whole room?”

“Georgiana!” Sidney snaps, without even turning around. Charlotte snorts quietly, and both young women erupt into quiet laughter. 

Sidney halts abruptly, and Charlotte and Georgiana run into his back, Tom and Mary managing to stop before they do likewise to them. 

“Do you smell smoke?” Sidney asks sharply. They look at him in consternation for a moment, then as one they all break into a run. 

There is precious little laughter after that moment. 

In the end, there are only two houses damaged in the blaze, but old Mr. Stringer is lost. Charlotte feels quiet tears trace their way down her cheeks, and she can hardly bear to look when the men make their way wearily out of the slightly charred timbers, carrying a stretcher amongst them. 

She squeezes James Stringer’s arm, and he nods at her, jaw clenched. She quietly leaves him to his grief. 

As a quieter, far less jubilant group of Parkers make their way back to Trafalgar house, Sidney falls into step beside her. 

“Thank god I got the insurance immediately.” He mutters, and Charlotte nods miserably. He sighs wearily, “No doubt it will take them some convincing to persuade them we did not set it deliberately.” Charlotte nods again, but she can feel her lip tremble.

“Charlotte?” Sidney lowers his voice, ensuring the rest of the group cannot hear them as Tom and Mary wander ahead, “Are you all right?”

She shakes her head furiously, and hiccups slightly. 

“He was-” She sobs, draws in a shaky breath, “He was only just on his feet again.”

“I know.” Sidney says gently, after a moment's hesitation. Charlotte halts to look at him.

“How can he be dead?” She asks helplessly, and bursts into tears. Her eyes are screwed shut, her body shaking with the force of her repressed cries, but she can feel the moment Sidney steps closer, leans gratefully into his warmth. His arms wrap around her, and Charlotte hears Mary and Tom’s footsteps halt briefly before continuing on. 

She cries for a moment, too tired to do anything else. Sidney simply holds her, breathing deeply and quietly into the night. 

“I feel so ashamed.” Charlotte says after a few moments have passed. Sidney’s arms tighten around her slightly.

“Why should you feel ashamed?” He asks quietly, and Charlotte shudders.

“Because,” She says helplessly, one hand clutching the fabric of his waistcoat as it had only a few weeks ago, “In spite of it all, I am relieved. There was a moment, when we saw the fire, when I thought-”

“I know.” Sidney sighs, “It could have been so much worse.” Charlotte pulls back her head, looks him boldly in the eye, blotched and tear-stained though she is.

“But is not that worse?” She demands, “To be relieved at the slightness of a tragedy? A man has still died!” Sidney looks at her for a moment, then raises his hands to cup her face. He looks into her eyes seriously.

“A man has died,” He says slowly, “That is not your fault, Charlotte. It is not mine. No one could have prevented it.”

“But I am happy!” Charlotte exclaims in frustration, the tears on her face making the statement seem almost ridiculous. “I am with you, and Sanditon is safe, and I am _happy_!”

Sidney sighs, and presses his forehead against hers. 

“I cannot say I find anything wrong in it.” He tells her quietly, and she closes her eyes, lets a few last tears slip down her cheeks. 

“I think I love you.” She whispers, and Sidney snorts against her cheek.

“Forgive me my amusement,” He chuckles drily, “But you did just agree to marry me.”

“Marriage does not always entail love.” Charlotte says quietly, and Sidney stills against her.

“You are right.” He says, and sighs into her hair. “I am already in danger of forgetting how lucky I am.” He murmurs quietly, and Charlotte smiles. Lady Susan was right, she thinks, it is a little like feeling everything at once, all the time. 

“The best of love and life.” She murmurs, recalling her friend’s words. 

“Indeed.” Sidney murmurs.

She stands in his arms, the sound of the sea crashing gently against the headland a quiet soughing that travels on the late night breeze. Sidney is quiet and content against, her head against his shoulder as they stand with their eyes closed, listening and being and feeling everything, all at once.

After a long few minutes, Sidney sighs deeply. When he speaks, it is in a tone of deep resignation and regret. The tone of a man in the throes of a realisation that he has made a grave mistake. 

“...This would have been an excellent moment to propose, wouldn’t it?”

Charlotte presses her cheek further into his shoulder.

"I shall try not to hold it against you." She murmurs, and smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The end]
> 
> Epilogue to follow :)


	15. Finis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a joyful epilogue full of ridiculousness.

“I do not recall the drive being this long before.” Tom curls and uncurls from his seat, attempting to stretch his limbs without attacking the four other people in the carriage. 

“I believe you slept most of the way.” Mary tells him drolly, and Tom nods. “That would be it!” He declares.

“I do not see why you all had to come in the first place.” Sidney stares moodily out of the window, looking rather cramped as his brother rolls his shoulders from one side to the other. Charlotte smiles at him, and his lips twitch in return before he forces a frown back onto his face. 

“We came,” Georgiana rolls her eyes, extracting an arm from where it is pressed against Charlotte’s side, “Because if we left you and Charlotte alone together you’d be married in about ten minutes, and that can’t happen until you inform her parents.”

“It could.” Sidney looks as though he’s been contemplating the best way to execute such an idea, and Charlotte kicks him. 

“They already know I have accepted Sidney’s proposal,” She reassures Tom and Mary, “They would just quite like to meet him. Again. Properly.”

“Yes, you know,” Tom leans forwards and his elbow hits Sidney in the ribs, “I keep asking for the full story and I have yet to have it. How did you meet again?”

“Tom!” Mary declares in exasperation, “They told you two weeks ago!”

“Sanditon was on fire!” Tom protests.

“Well, not quite technically by that point.” Georgiana inserts, and Tom flaps a hand at her.

“The technicality of the blaze’s timing is immaterial!” Tom gesticulates wildly and Sidney ducks to avoid a black eye. “I was preoccupied!”

“You know,” Sidney mutters to Charlotte as the rest of the carriage bicker about Tom’s attention span, “I’m fairly sure this is how it went then as well.”

“Worse, I think.” Charlotte says dryly, “Tom thought you meant a carriage accident when we rescued Georgiana.”

“Did that ever happen?” Tom swivels to address his brother. Sidney sighs deeply.

“The only accident was six years ago.” He explains patiently, “When Charlotte injured her leg.”

“Charlotte injured her leg!” Tom exclaims, and the whole carriage groans. 

“Tom.” Charlotte says firmly, “You recall our conversation in London. About Sidney.”

“Yes.” Tom smiles amicably. 

“The young woman injured in the carriage accident near Sanditon, the one Sidney told you about.”

“Yes.” Tom nods, “The one with the small glass boat - Sidney, you never told me, whatever did happen to that object?”

Sidney doesn’t answer, turning a stormy gaze to the window once more. Georgiana flinches slightly. 

“In any case!” Charlotte recalls Tom’s attention. “The young woman in the carriage - at Sanditon - was me.”

“You!” Tom exclaims, and even Mary sighs wearily. 

“I am so very sorry.” She announces to the carriage at large, and Georgiana pats her knee, “He’s had very little sleep for the last month.”

“Never mind sleep!” Tom exclaims, and turns to his brother, “Sidney! You found her!”

“...I did.” Sidney frowns for a moment longer before he gives in to his brother’s good humour, a small smile upon his face as Tom punches his arm in delight. 

“Astonishing!” Tom cries, then thinks a moment, “That would explain why you kept dodging Eliza when I invited her to the Regatta, wouldn’t it?”

“Dodging is a strong word.” Sidney says, with the air of a man backed into a corner - which, strictly speaking was not inaccurate. “The Regatta was a very busy day.”

“You disappeared for a whole hour!” Tom protests.

“I was teaching Charlotte to row!” Sidney argues, muttering under his breath, “And Eliza  _ still _ found us.”

“You spent time unsupervised with Charlotte in a boat!” Mary looks slightly horrified.

“What could I possibly do with her in a boat!” Sidney demands.

“That he hadn’t already done in the streets of London.” Georgiana remarks wryly.

“Georgiana!” Sidney and Charlotte exclaim together.

“I am sorry!” Georgiana looks slightly repentant, “It slipped out!”

“I told you that in confidence.” Charlotte hisses.

“You told her about it!” Sidney demands, and Charlotte hesitates, caught.

“Told her about what?” Tom’s eyes are darting around furiously.

“Sidney!” Mary demands, “What did you do to Charlotte in London?”

“I didn’t do anything to Charlotte in London.” Sidney snaps, “It was her fault!”

“It was not my fault!” Charlotte retorts. “You leaned in!”

“You kissed me!”

“You kissed back”

“You hit him with a stick!”

“He was attacking me!”

“Who was attacking you?” Georgiana and Mary chime in simultaneously, and Tom just stares at them both in astonishment.

“A man.” Charlotte says, glaring at Sidney. “He isn’t important. I dealt with him.”

“How?” Georgiana demands, intrigued.

“Did I not tell you before?” Charlotte says faintly, struggling to think of a way out of answering.

“You did not.” Georgiana tells her gleefully, “Unless this is the same man you hit when he tried to attack Sidney.”

“You hit a man! Charlotte!” Mary protests from the corner.

“She headbutted him.” Georgiana tells her with relish, “I think she broke his nose.”

“Really!” Tom exclaims, looking delighted.

“I did not break his nose!” Charlotte protests, “He broke my bonnet.”

“No, you broke your bonnet.” Sidney reminds her, “On his forehead.”

“I was aiming for his nose.” Says Charlotte miserably.

“At least you didn’t aim between his legs.” Sidney says drily.

“Sidney!” Mary protests, “There are ladies present!”

“Ladies who have struck other men between the legs with their cane.” Sidney observes, looking darkly amused at the uproar they have created.

“It was once.” Charlotte mutters, kicking him lightly on the shin. “ _ Once _ , and it was in very unusual circumstances.”

“You struck him  _ between the legs! _ ” Georgiana practically screeches in Charlotte’s ear, “Charlotte! You didn’t tell me about this!”

“Oh now look what you’ve done.” She hisses at Sidney, who looks unrepentant. 

“Wait!” Tom holds up his hands until the carriage falls silent, then looks Charlotte in the eye gravely. “You struck my brother between the legs?”

Sidney chokes, and Charlotte blushes.

“No!” She protests as Georgiana cackles hysterically and Mary closes her eyes in despair, “I did not! It was another man, a ruffian who attacked me.”

“She just kissed Sidney.” Georgiana interjects.

“Georgiana!” Sidney, Mary and Charlotte all exclaim at once.

“Well, she did.” Georgiana says, “I don’t see why it’s my fault it happened.”

“You don’t have to keep mentioning it!”

“You mentioned it first!”

“You kissed him first!”

“You did kiss me first.” Sidney interjects, looking very pleased with himself. 

“At least you’re getting married.” Mary says faintly, fanning herself gently with a hand. “At least there’s that.”

Charlotte glares at Sidney and his smug smile all the way to Willingden. 

By the time they arrive, however, Sidney is looking rather green. 

“Carriage ride not agree with you?” Charlotte asks him pertly.

“I am quite well.” He tells her as Tom and Mary exit the carriage. 

“You don’t look it.” Charlotte looks at him more kindly, “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Perhaps,” Sidney says slowly, looking like a man approaching the gallows, “We should not have told Tom and Mary about they kiss.”

“They won’t mention it I am sure.” Charlotte smiles, then adds with mischief, “At least we didn’t tell them about the time I saw you naked.”

Georgiana sticks her head back in the carriage.

“You saw Sidney  _ naked _ ?” She demands in a furious whisper, and Charlotte looks at Sidney in panic.

“Yes, never mind!” Sidney leaps from the carriage via the other door, tugging Charlotte with him. 

“Mr. Heywood!” He greets Charlotte’s father with a smile and a nod, and Charlotte shuffles out from behind him to fling her arms around her father.

“Papa!” She cries, and Mr. Heywood hugs her back. 

“I must say, Charlotte.” He tells her, “I could hardly believe it when you wrote of Mr. Parker. After all these years.”

He turns to Sidney, gently relinquishing his hold on Charlotte. “Thank you.” He says simply, and holds out his hand.

Sidney takes it, look rather confused. “Forgive me,” He says, “What is it you are thanking me for?”

“You saved my daughter’s life.” Mr. Heywood smiles, “I am deeply grateful.”

“Not at all.” Sidney turns to look at Charlotte, “I am fairly sure she’s done her fair share of saving in return.”

“Oh Charlotte.” Her mother sighs as she breaks off her conversation with Tom and Mary, “You haven’t been hitting people again have you?”

“Did you go between the legs?” Alexander pops up from out of nowhere, toy boat in his hand. 

“Once!” Charlotte exclaims, “Once! I have only done that once!”

“Tell me,” Georgiana confronts Sidney with a serious face, “Did you know that she was like this before you asked her to marry you?”

“Regrettably, yes.” Sidney admits, and he can’t seem to prevent the contented smile that spreads across his face. Mr. Heywood claps him on the shoulder.

“Good to know.” He says, “I wasn’t looking forward to trying not to mention it until the wedding was safely out of the way.”

“Papa!” Charlotte exclaims.

“I’m not saying that a man who is worthy of you shouldnt be able to accept it, Charlotte.” Mr. Heywood raises his hands soothingly, “I am only pointing out that even a worthy man might want to think about it for a moment.”

“Oh and I think about a moment was all Sidney needed.” Georgiana mutters, and Charlotte stamps on her foot.

“Another word out of any of you!” She declares, “And I won’t marry anybody!”

They all fall silent instantly. 

“ _ Thank _ you.” Charlotte says, walking calmly into the house. She can see Alison hovering upstairs, waving to her frantically.

“...You don’t think she meant that, do you?” She hears Sidney mutter to her father as they all fall in behind her. 

“He doesn’t look like a merman.” Alison tells her with a smile, as Sidney talks with their parents in the sitting room. Tom, Mary and Georgiana are stretching their legs, on a small tour of the farm led by six of Charlotte’s siblings. Charlotte leans against the wall, smiling at Alison conspiratorially. 

“I have a story about that actually.” She laughs, “Only I shall have to tell you later. No one else can seem to shut up about how inappropriate we are, and if I tell you now someone is sure to overhear and be appalled.” Alison looks intrigued, but she only nods.

“Your new friend seems nice.” She goes on. “Georgiana.”

Charlotte nods. “She’s somewhat unhappy still.” She sighs, “I think she is considering writing to Otis.”

“The man she loves?” Alison frowns, “Was he not awful to her?”

“Yes and no.” Charlotte shrugs, “All of us are flawed. We make mistakes. Perhaps Georgiana feels as though she may forgive him for his, one day.”

Alison nods solemnly. 

“Mama says you want to get married at Christmas.” She changes track again, and Charlotte blinks.

“Soon, yes.” She says, and Alison smiles. 

“You must love him.” She says, “Even though you said you didn’t.” She looks at Charlotte, eyebrow raised.

“I did not love him then.” Charlotte sighs, “I think I only loved him later.” Alison grins.

“It’s still ridiculously romantic.” She pokes Charlotte’s side, and both of them giggle. “I can’t believe you found your Mr. Parker, after all these years. But I thought he was called Edward?”

“Why did you think my name was Edward?” Sidney’s voice suddenly comes from behind her, and Charlotte jumps.

“Dear lord,” She exclaims, “I cannot take any more surprises today.”

Alison is considerably more composed. 

“It was on the handkerchief you gave her.” She tells him calmly, “The initials were E.P.”

“Ah.” Sidney looks at Charlotte, who smiles reassuringly. “That is a rather long story.”

“I shall make you tell me at some point in the future.” Alison smiles, “For now it looks as though the two of you would appreciate a quiet walk.”

“Are you quite sure we’re allowed.” Sidney mutters, disgruntled, “Mary, at least, would have something to say about it.”

“Mary isn’t here.” Charlotte says firmly, and moves to go through the kitchen. “Come along.” She beckons him through to the back door. “I have someone for you to meet.”

“Charlotte.” Says Sidney wearily, “How on earth did you not notice him eating your hair?”

“I was reading.” She tells him, as though that explains everything. 

“But he  _ crunches. _ ” Sidney gestures to Plato’s mouth, happily filled with carrot. 

“Hair doesn’t crunch.” Charlotte says with aplomb, “And it was a very interesting book.”

“Of course it was.” Sidney mutters, looking unconvinced. 

(Charlotte will remind him of this moment when she comes back from a walk with Georgiana three days later to find him in the stables, back to a hay bale as Plato slobbers contentedly into his hair.

“I’m letting him.” Sidney tells her pointedly, “It’s not as though I simply haven’t noticed and he’s  _ eating  _ it.”

“Sidney.” Charlotte says, “That’s worse.”)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all folks! Thank you so much (again) to everyone who has read and commented and kept me going. I love you all, I really hope that this story has brightened your day somewhat over the past couple of weeks. 
> 
> Hope to see you all again soon.
> 
> Wyrdly x

**Author's Note:**

> Hi All! Hope you enjoyed reading. Bear with me, I have more for this sketched out and we will (hopefully) we taking a little detour around and through the familiar events of the show, just shaken up a bit by my shameless interference. Please note that if I don't deliver you a happy ending, I'll have disappointed myself as well as everybody else. I didn't expect to love these two as much as I did, and now my life is crying and re-watching Charlotte/Sidney fan videos on an endless loop. Join me, it's its own kind of fun. 
> 
> Any and all constructive criticism is deeply appreciated, and please let me know if you find anything offensive/unsuitable and I will do my best to work with you and change it :)


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